


when my heart is at war

by mopeytropey (scriptmanip)



Series: when my heart is at war [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, F/F, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-07
Updated: 2018-06-26
Packaged: 2019-05-02 20:35:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 55,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14553015
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scriptmanip/pseuds/mopeytropey
Summary: Lexa is primed for great leadership and will not be deviated from her agenda.Clarke is driven by her insatiable curiosity and is not easily deterred.There is plenty at work to drive them apart, but the strength of their combined determination will change the course of an entire civilization.





	1. Oso nou laik lukots

**Author's Note:**

> Kindly forget everything you know about canon. There is no Mountain. There is no conflict between ground and sky. There are no stray bullets and no AI. This is a story about discovery, resilience, determination, and above all else, it is about love.

**_Spring_ **

 

The stories they told her went like this:

The bombs destroyed everyone and everything—complete and total annihilation. Survivors of the Ark would eventually repopulate, reassess, and recreate a new civilization on an abandoned and devastated planet.

In actuality, what was meant to be a triumphant return to their ancestors’ homeland turned out to be something entirely unprecedented. As the Ark finally abandoned its celestial orbit for lack of resources, its survivors quickly found themselves in a precarious position—their expectations of a barren and decimated planet were completely shattered. The stories were wrong. The Earth was not vacant. Clarke’s entire existence was in sudden flux, and she hadn’t even gotten her first period.

When the Ark burned its way through the Earth’s atmosphere and crashed rather clumsily to solid ground, it landed well within occupied territory. A thriving inland settlement its inhabitants call TonDC. Roughly translated to Woods Clan, Trigeda are one of several groups of surviving people that have settled and sustained for generations within the surrounding area. They are the people of the trees: the Trikru.

Because the portion of the Ark on which Clarke and her mother were aboard saw less than fifty survivors as they touched down, they were quickly dismissed as non-threatening, if not also entirely curious and unexpected intruders. The local Elders deliberated their proceedings swiftly, and in less than a week’s time, the forty or so remaining Ark inhabitants were absorbed into Woods Clan society. They are a diverse people: healers, warriors, builders, and philosophers. Clarke likes them, even if she does not yet fully understand everything about them.

TonDC is not quite a city. Or, not what Clarke’s education aboard an orbiting space station had led her to believe comprises a city. Most of its previous structures are gone—massive buildings of elusive importance crumbled and razed to the ground by a resilient people attempting to rebuild after The Last War. Now, despite what it once was, TonDC is what Clarke calls home.

Two years have passed since her people landed gracelessly onto Earth’s surface, and Clarke has adapted to her new life on the ground. Mostly.

:::

“Sex with robots.”

Clarke laughs in the dark, nevertheless shoving Raven’s elbow where it rests beside her. “No! Procreation with machinery, even intelligent machinery, isn’t physically possible.”

Raven has her own bed, in her own tiny room, though she ends up bunking with Clarke more often than not. Unless Wells gets to her first, recurring nightmares depending. Technically, they can still fit three across the mattress, like sardines in a tin, though it’s gotten much less comfortable since puberty when Wells found his growth spurt and Raven and Clarke began to round out their figures. She would never, _ever_ kick them out of her bed after what they’ve all been through, but it’s always unfortunate getting a sharp elbow in her boob during the night.

“People were prepared for interplanetary travel, Clarke! Habitats on Mars and shit.They were creating viable human organs from 3D printers and cloning livestock. And, that’s just the stuff we _know_ about—they totally could have been boinking robots and making half-breed mechanical babies on the down low.” Then, with some familiar disdain. “It would explain their complete lack of emotion.”

“The Nightbloods are not half-robot,” Clarke answers flatly.

Tomorrow is Raven’s birthday. She’ll turn fifteen, the last of the three of them to hit that mark. Wells first, then Clarke over the winter, and now Raven. It feels significant to her, that they’ve all managed to survive the past two years in this new environment, surrounded by strangers and kept by laws and traditions they still don’t fully understand. Of course Raven doesn’t want to talk about that. She’d rather play this inane game of theirs, which never fails to put them both to sleep—a string of never-ending and increasingly outlandish theories on the true origins of the hallowed Nightbloods.

“Maybe they’re chipped then. You know, programmed to only access certain human traits.”

“Chipped?”

“Yeah, like some kind of motherboard implanted into their skulls at birth or something.”

Clarke scoffs, rolling over so that her arm is slung across Raven’s stomach. She likes the sensation—feeling that subtle up-and-down of Raven’s shallow breathing. It’s late, and she’s getting drowsy, but she’ll stay awake as she always does to ensure Raven falls asleep.

“No way,” Clarke argues, laughing lightly. “Think of how many Nightblood children have been born throughout the clans over the span of a couple hundred years. That kind of technology wouldn’t be sustainable.”

Raven hums, considering, and then is quiet for a moment. Clarke hopes she’s winding down. Her eyes are heavy after another long day, and sleep will come easily once Raven drifts off. She still remembers their first few nights on the ground—outside the confines of the Ark for the first time in their lives—new sounds and new beds, surrounded by hundreds of unfamiliar faces, and too scared by all the unknowns to sleep at all.

Determined as always, Raven says, “I’m gonna figure it out.”

“Maybe there’s no scientific explanation,” Clarke goads. “Maybe they’re just gifted.”

“Ugh,” Raven gags, rolling onto her side so that she and Clarke now lie together in a loose spoon. “I hate that word—so fucking pretentious. They’re worse than the cadets on the Ark.”

“Fitting then,” Clarke adds. “Both a group of elitist snobs programmed for combat.”

“Seriously. Nightbloods aren’t gifted, they’re just entitled assholes,” Raven grunts, falling silent again as the small room fills with nocturnal sounds from the woods outside. “Besides, there’s a scientific explanation for everything.”

The window panes in Clarke’s room were blown out and shattered in another lifetime. Glass is a commodity not often seen in this new world, but the basic structure of this building remains intact—what Clarke thinks was once an elementary school in the time Before. The single window in her room has since been boarded up and a layer of stiff linen is pulled taut across its opening. In the warmer weather, Clarke can remove the protective covering to allow summer breezes to circulate the room.

Even now, in what her ancestors would have called late spring, the room is drafty. A persistent chill remains throughout the colder seasons, though not cold enough now to light the single brazier in the corner. Staccato chirps, echoed howls, and rustling trees filter into the stillness—a nighttime soundtrack that took ages for Clarke to regulate into her sleep routines. Gone is the low, electric hum of the Ark. If she concentrates very hard, she can still hear the whirring generators, the whoosh of an airlock, the clanking footsteps of boots on metal.

It’s been long minutes since her mind began to drift, and Raven’s breathing feels even beneath her hand. “Raven?”

There is a short, quiet hum in response, a good sign that Raven is close to sleep.

“Happy birthday.”

Raven grabs her fingers, squeezing once. “Thanks.”

:::

“I have a group of healers coming in to observe a minor surgical procedure this morning,” Abby says, flitting around the kitchen area while Clarke and Raven eat breakfast. “I’ll have to leave a little bit early, but please don’t be late for your classes.”

“We’re never late,” Clarke defends through a mouthful of fruit. Its sweet, yellow juices run down her chin until Raven throws a cloth napkin at her face.

There are things they no longer have—distant comforts of life on the Ark, like running water or electricity. Technology in general is obsolete in this world—part of a relatively long list of conveniences they’ve learned to live without for two years now. Of course, there are also things they _never_ had on the Ark that exist here in spades. Fresh fruit, sunbaked grains, and real dairy—no longer the powdered substance Clarke was always _told_ was milk. She would honestly live a hundred lifetimes without artificial heat and light if she could keep eating the creamy cheeses and salty butters churned by Trikru hands.   

“Niylah told me you’ll be doing a full review of—”

“Oh, well if _Niylah_ is running the class today, then Clarke will most definitely be punctual.” Raven grins across the table, raising her eyebrows suggestively at Clarke’s withering glare.

She often regrets telling Raven even the most minuscule, innocuous details of her life, but Clarke is especially regretful about confiding her developing crush on the beautiful, young Trikru woman who is occasionally charged with their instruction. She should have known Raven can never be trusted.

“We get Niylah today?” Wells asks brightly, entering the kitchen off the opposite side of Clarke and her mother’s quarters. He looks dressed for the day, refreshed, and ready to take on the world. Clarke smiles up at him.

Raven scoffs, finishing her bowl of grains and milk, topped generously with honey. “You two are pathetic.”

They live in a building provided by the people of TonDC which is still relatively incomplete—constructed partially with dilapidated elements from Before, like concrete and iron, and reinforced by Trikru hands with lumber from their forests. The structure was all but destroyed during the bombs, much like everything else in their sprawling community, but enough of its framework remained to salvage for housing. A few other Trikru families reside within its walls, but it is more or less occupied by Arkers. Thirty-seven of them in total. The kitchen is large and communal—a space appropriate for regular gatherings at mealtimes. Today it is just the four of them.   

“I don’t care what compels you to get there,” Abby says, sweeping past the small, round breakfast table with her coat already on and medical bag in one hand. She squeezes Wells’ shoulder in greeting and kisses the top of Clarke’s head. “Just get there _on time_.”

“We will,” Wells promises earnestly.

“Right,” Clarke agrees. “And then we’ll all see you later for dinner.” It’s a pointed statement as Clarke catches her mom’s eye. Abby looks perplexed until Clarke makes a subtle jerk of her head towards Raven and mouths the word: _birthday_.

“Yes, of course,” her mother quickly agrees, waving a hand at them as if she didn’t need the reminder. “Big day!” She beams at Raven, who looks down to her bowl.

“It’s cool if you forgot, Mrs. G. Not really a big deal.”

“I did _not_ forget. I will be there, with cake, and it’s a very big deal,” Abby tells her, leaning to place a kiss on Raven’s temple that has her blushing if not fighting a smile.

Prior to its descent, the Ark was absolute mayhem. During the months preceding its eventual collapse, the general population was in panic, the resources were dangerously low, and the presiding council was out of solutions. Plans to evacuate—to return to Earth—were slapdash, at best. Families were separated, lives were lost. It was a dark end to the Ark’s otherwise peaceful existence in the cosmos.

Raven’s mother, along with Wells’ father, were among those lost within those final days. In turn, Clarke has spent the last two years of her life not knowing what happened to her father—separated just hours prior to the Ark splitting apart. Parentless kids, like Raven and Wells, were immediately taken in by the community at large as they began to sort out their new existence on the ground. They may all be only children with but one parent between them, but Clarke has never felt shortchanged on family.

When Abby leaves them for her day of work at the medical facility, Clarke extends her foot beneath the table to bump against Raven’s kneecap. “If it makes you feel any better, she never remembers any of my birthdays either.”

:::

As these late days of spring press closer towards summer, she thinks of her father. She thinks of him constantly, but when the sun warms her face and arms, Clarke wants to set off into the forests in search of him. He would love the warmth and dirt and sweat of life on the ground. He would love the food and the crisp, cool water from the river. He would love it all. The Ark had many modules that hurtled towards Earth’s gravitational pull that day, just as Clarke’s had, and she has to believe that her dad made it aboard. She has to believe that he survived somehow.

There were search parties early on, bargained and begged for by Clarke’s mom and the other adults. But the Trikru found nothing, heard reports of nothing from scouts and neighboring clans. _Radio silence,_ Raven had called it. Clarke squints from the afternoon sun, headed for the treeline, and tries to recall the sound of her father’s laugh.

“Hei, Skai Pichu!”

She doesn’t have to turn her head to know who is launching insults at her from the nearby training grounds, nor does she respond. She won’t give Octavia kom Trikru the satisfaction. Clarke is no one’s _Sky Pet_ , no matter how frequently Octavia and her band of noble warriors insist on the ridiculous nickname. After two years of unprovoked hostility, she thinks they could at least be a little more creative with their insults.

Clarke puts her head down, hurrying—without _looking_ like she’s hurrying—past the open arena where small grunts and clattering metal and sounds of cracking wood fill the air. Today she is in no mood.

“Come on, Pichu! Jomp in—I’ll go easy on you!”

Of course, Octavia is rarely deterred by Clarke’s silent refusal to engage.

Trigedasleng is not a harsh and unforgiving language—like the way her father’s German always sounded slightly angry even when he was making a joke. Native to several of the known clans in the area, its origins derive at least in part from an English dialect. Clarke finds it relatively easy to translate if not enjoyable to learn. She thinks it’s spoken quite beautifully, in fact, by several of the Trikru who regularly educate her and her people. She feels a creeping blush as she thinks again of Niylah and her lessons from earlier that morning. Trigedasleng sounds more lovely still as she begins to parse and digest its subtleties. On Octavia’s tongue, laced with her arrogance and snide inflections, it has never sounded so distasteful.

Clarke bites her cheek until the skin between her teeth tastes like blood, eyes focused on her destination instead of the persistent taunts of her peers. At fourteen, she would have taken the bait without a second thought. Now at fifteen, she’s trying to be better, avoiding pointless retaliations that only serve to find her trouble. Octavia’s taunts seem to crawl beneath her skin, but Clarke holds her tongue, determined not to engage. Wells is going to be so proud.

If Raven were with her, they would have already engaged. Raven would probably risk a broken limb for the opportunity to take a crack at Octavia. But, Clarke is alone at the moment and doesn’t feel up to the challenge. She is by no means afraid of the Nightbloods and their ridiculous entourage of would-be warriors, she just prefers to avoid interacting with them when at all possible.

Nightbloods—children born of a particularly valued lineage—are practically regarded as demigods by the inhabitants of their settlement. The whole concept continues to intrigue Clarke despite the unfavorable opinions she’s formed of their exaggerated rank and status.

Octavia isn’t even a Nightblood, but that doesn’t stop her from exuding the same brand of obnoxious superiority that Clarke has come to associate with them. She is gona kom nau—a Trikru warrior-in-training brought up alongside the Nightbloods to hone skills of combat and warfare. The taunts continue, despite Clarke’s hurried footsteps. She knows she should keep her mouth shut. She can almost hear Wells’ virtuous advice in her ear, but truthfully, she’s never been great at controlling her impulses.

“I wouldn’t want to embarrass you, goufa.” She throws the insult over her shoulder, not stopping to engage but definitely slowing to hear Octavia’s response.

Octavia is no more a child than Clarke, perhaps a year between them, but it’s the perfect insult for someone who loathes the constraints of their age.

“You’re the one who is soft and fragile like a baby, little Pichu!” Octavia shouts back, still smiling but with the retaliatory bite of someone who’s been stung with words. Her elbows hang over the arena’s low, wooden fencing, as if she would lunge at Clarke were it not there. “Even your nomon wouldn’t be able to heal the wounds I would leave on—”

“Octavia, shof op.” Another girl approaches, her grasp on Octavia’s shoulder firm but subtle. Like her tone, it leaves no room for discussion. “Your fight is with my swords, not with empty, wasted words.”

Clarke watches a smug satisfaction work its way onto Octavia’s face as she turns away, swinging a training sword in an array of pretentious showmanship. Clarke scowls at her retreating form. The other girl—a taller, angular brunette called Lexa, with striking features and light eyes—is dressed in dark colors and wears her hair in many braids. She speaks in an unexpectedly soft, simple lilt for all the command she exudes. Her arms bear the ink of ceremonial tattoos, glistening now from the heat of the midday sun. She affords Clarke a fleeting glance before returning to the center of the arena, two blunt-edged swords strapped to her back.

Clarke rolls her eyes: _fucking Nightbloods._

She’s known of Lexa since the Ark landed—it’s hard to avoid the swarms of chatter about the sainted Nightbloods that walk amongst them. But, two years in the same city and they've yet to meet in an official capacity.

There’s not much cause for their paths to cross. For all that they are honored and revered, Nightbloods are also kept away—sequestered to train alongside the young warriors who will someday swear allegiance to protect them. When they aren’t on the training grounds with their staffs and knives and swords, they engage in rigorous education. Clarke and the handful of kids that survived the Ark’s descent are educated among other Trikru children. Nightbloods are taught privately. Their minds, it’s said, must remain as sharp as the blades they wield in battle.

Clarke is taught volumes about Trikru life, of which the role of Nightbloods plays a major role, but there remain gaps in her education. Things she still questions about their existence. She’s seen them fight. She’s heard them talk. She knows their revered heritage and history. She’s watched them file through the village with their solemn faces and rigid posture. She honestly doesn’t know what all the fuss is about.

:::

The air at nightfall is much cooler, but Clarke is warmed by the bursting heat of a crackling bonfire outside their building. Her mother, true to her word if only once per year, provides a small cake for Raven. Clarke wonders if she bartered for it with one of her patients. In addition, a few of their Trikru neighbors bring a sweet honey wine, fermented with a much lower alcohol content than some of their more potent brews but enough to have Clarke feelings its warming effects. They sing the old song and embarrass Raven with homemade gifts, amusing their Trikru housemates with their silly traditions held over from Before as if the entire clan identity isn’t based on a catalogue of equally bizarre rituals. Her mother limits them all to one cup of honey wine each, but then neglects to supervise them in favor of chatting with the other adults.

If Abby Griffin is the stalwart, Skaikru matriarch then Marcus Kane is her dependable counterpart. He is fatherly by way of his effortless aesthetic: kind face, warm tone, trusting smile.  

“Fifteen,” he says, sidling up alongside Raven with a worn but happy sigh.

She nods, awkwardly accepting a brief side hug and making an uncomfortable grimace that has Clarke laughing into her drink. “Yep.”

“Did you ever think that on your fifteenth birthday you’d be standing on the ground looking up?”

It’s such a dad thing to say, these existential musings that are almost always lost on Clarke and her peers. The older generation still tends to linger on their existence aboard the Ark; Clarke and her friends, while cognizant of their dual identities, assimilated quickly. Clarke neither thinks of herself as ground nor sky but something growing between the two.

“Um, honestly I never gave it much thought,” Raven shrugs.

Marcus sighs again, still happy if not a bit deflated, as if he half expected Raven’s indifference. “Well, we’re glad you’re here. You’re such a bright kid—I can’t wait to see what you accomplish down here.”

Raven squirms beneath the heavy compliment, shifting her weight from foot to foot, but mumbles a quiet _‘thanks’_ before Marcus makes his way around the fire to mingle with the other adults.

“He’s so weird,” Raven says when Kane is out of earshot.

“He’s nice,” Wells defends, always the diplomat.

“It’s _weird_ that he’s so nice,” Raven insists.

Clarke shrugs. “I like that he’s nice. We could have been stuck down here with a complete dick.” She shudders at the prospect, “Like Pike.”

Dropping the name of their old, militaristic political science professor from their days aboard the Ark has even Wells cringing, who has never had anything negative to say about another human being in his entire life.

“All I’m saying is, when people are too nice it makes me very uncomfortable,” Raven continues. “Like, you just can’t trust someone who’s too nice _all the time_.”

Wells frowns. “Hey, I’m consistently very nice.”

“Case in point,” Raven grins, cackling in delight when Wells pushes her off the tree stump she’d been using as a seat.

“Maybe you should be making friends with the Nightbloods then,” Clarke suggests. “I don’t even think they’re permitted to smile or express any signs of joy by, like, ancient law. Sounds like that’s more your speed.”

Raven flips her off and Wells groans beside her, tilting to one side dramatically. “Please do not start with this again, you two.”

“What?” Clarke and Raven respond innocently.

“Every time you guys get on some tangent about Nightbloods, your commentary lasts for _hours_.”

“There’s just so many annoying things about them,” Raven argues, “how can we be expected to condense our criticism?”

Wells shakes his head. “No. They’re extremely talented and disciplined. Regimented for leadership.”

“Exactly,” Raven giggles into her cup of wine. “ _Annoying_.”

“I find them to be pretty interesting, actually,” Wells says.

Clarke’s knee-jerk instinct is to echo the sentiment. She has always found the Nightbloods endlessly interesting. She sometimes finds herself unable to stop thinking about them and their peculiarities, even when Raven isn’t around to fuel her curiosities.

Instead she says, “See? Way too nice.” She pats Wells’ shoulder while Raven laughs.

:::

It's an early evening in late spring when she finally meets Lexa. 

Clarke spends her mornings learning the language and the history of a people who survived the bombs. She and her peers are meant to cultivate an understanding and appreciation for varied aspects of Trikru life and the surrounding clans. They gather in various locations around the settlement, depending on the lessons for the day. It’s not dissimilar to the schooling system on the Ark except for the fresh air and sunshine on Clarke’s face, the mud on her boots, or the dirt beneath her fingernails.

Then it’s on to practical applications. Wells works with a group of young scholars, shadowing the Elders who maintain a type of political system between the surrounding Trikru settlements and foster friendly relations with nearby clans. Raven spends her time gutting the remains of the Ark with the only engineer that landed with them and a handful of Trikru builders who are intrigued by the Arkers’ technology. The section of the Ark which brought them to Earth was almost entirely destroyed on impact, losing nearly all its functionality. Still, Raven tells her that they continue to find things worth salvaging as the ship is gradually dismantled. As part of the Trigeda agreement for allowing Skaikru to remain, the damaged land must eventually be restored.

Clarke has found a place among the fisas and spends her afternoons training with them—a collection of men, women, and adolescents who maintain a medical facility within the village.

“Your time here is done, Clarke.” They are led by an absolute behemoth—a burly, bearded man with more tattoos than he has muscle mass, which is really saying something. Though in truth, Nyko is as gentle and soft-spoken as he is a towering giant.

Clarke looks up from her station in the training wing. “Could I stay a bit longer?”

She enjoys her cultural education well enough. Learning the history and language of a people that they never knew existed has been fascinating. But, she _loves_ her time spent with the healers. Her mother has been a physician for Clarke’s entire life, but she never took an interest in medicine the way she has with Nyko. She enjoys their holistic approach and the rudimentary practices that have kept the Trigeda thriving for over a century. Something about it makes sense to her. She appreciates Nyko’s instructions and the respect he has for life in all forms. In this society, a fisa is seen as no less noble than the warriors trained to protect them or the flowering yarrow used to save them.  

Nyko regards her for a long moment through dark, kind eyes, but his quiet contemplation results in a resigned sigh as Clarke knew it would. “Sha.”

“Mochof.” She smiles her thanks, practically beaming into the small stone bowl of fresh herbs she’s been gradually working into a paste with her pestle. When it reaches the right consistency, it will be used to alleviate the sting from minor burns and cuts.

The sun is ablaze, its fiery light filtering in through the wooden slats in the windows and giving the room a kind of glow. Nyko is supposed to send her and the other young healers off to dinner when the sun sets, but he knows as well as Clarke does that her mother isn’t at home preparing any meals. She’s likely still on site, working at the opposite end of their middling facility that handles the more serious procedures—broken bones, surgeries, and childbirth. Not to mention, Clarke has found a soft spot in Nyko by showing a vested interest in her education. It’s very difficult for him to deny a Skaikru apprentice so eager to learn their methods of healing.

:::

An hour later, he enters briskly ahead of two other large men who flank a lythe, narrow-faced girl. A second girl is being helped inside, limping and cursing fluently in Trigedasleng.

“Bring her in here,” Nyko directs calmly. “Clarke, the cloths from the basin—hos op.”

Clarke hurries as directed, practically running towards a row of four water basins used for cleaning and sanitizing medical bandaging and strips of cloth for cleaning wounds. Nyko is reaching for other supplies as Clarke approaches an exam table in the far corner. The two towering warriors remain at the main door, keeping guard. The girl—a young warrior Clarke thinks they call Ahn—has deposited the injured patient onto the table, who continues growling angrily in rapid Trigedasleng until she notices Clarke and stops short. Her mouth gapes uncharacteristically, and Clarke’s brow shoots up before she can control it.

It’s Lexa.

Lexa who rarely speaks, let alone profanely. Lexa who is a paragon of composure. Lexa who Clarke had, naively, always imagined was invincible to pain or injury.

There are Nightbloods born of every clan. Nine currently live within the settlement of TonDC, of which Lexa is one. They aren’t necessarily born here, but Nightbloods of smaller Trikru settlements are brought to TonDC and other developed communities to begin their rigorous training under the guidance of appointed mentors.

Lexa is slumped on the table’s edge until she attempts better posturing and winces quite obviously in the face of what Clarke suspects could be broken ribs. Her bottom lip is split open and a cut above her left eye trickles a slow trail of blood, smudged onto her sharp cheekbone. The lighting in the room is low, but the blood on Lexa’s face looks unexpectedly dark and Clarke wonders just how deeply she was cut. In a world without artificial light, they are left with soft glowing candles by which to work once the sun sets. If stitches are necessary, Clarke anticipates gathering more candles from the surrounding rooms and positioning them near the bed.  

“Stop fidgeting, yongon,” Nyko softly commands. He has moved to sit beside the bed on a stool that swivels. It reminds Clarke of the ones in the medical bay of the Ark, and she wonders if, like so many other things, it’s been reclaimed from a time Before.

Lexa stops moving but doesn’t return to a more comfortable position, her face still strained from the pain of her ramrod posture. Clarke would scoff at all of her pretension if she didn’t think the girl at Lexa’s side would put a blade to her throat for insubordinate behavior in the presence of a Nightblood. No one is above another in Trikru society, no life more valuable than the next, but it’s often harder for Clarke to decipher the equality when it comes to Nightbloods.

“You know, if you’ve cracked any of your ribs, it’ll feel better to lie back,” she offers, approaching slowly with her varying cloths for cleaning and bandaging wounds plus a small bowl of ice.

Lexa bites out something low and severe, lost to Clarke’s still developing vocabulary but presumably unkind. She furrows her brow, wondering what exactly she ever did to deserve the scorn of Octavia and now Lexa too. Nyko tsks and places a large palm against Lexa’s shoulder, a warm, mothering gesture that belies his savage strength. He’s encouraging her to lie back as Clarke had suggested, but it’s not until the older girl, Ahn, roughly yanks Lexa onto the exam table that she finally complies. Nyko presses two fingers into Lexa’s side, testing the injury, and Clarke watches as she grinds her teeth, jaw flexing in obvious pain, though her reaction is impressively subdued.

“Anya, you can let Titus know we will keep Lexa here overnight.”  

 _Oh. It’s Anya, not Ahn._ Clarke makes the mental correction as Anya nods stiffly and moves to make her exit.

“Hod op, Anya.” She is caught by Lexa’s hand wrapped swiftly around her wrist and pauses to look over her shoulder. “I am fine,” Lexa says, though her jaw is still locked and her breathing shallow. “You will tell Titus nothing.”

Clarke watches Anya’s eyes—dark and unrevealing—cut to Nyko then back to Lexa, who still clutches a wrist between her slender fingers. “I will tell him what he needs to know. I will be back for you in the morning.” Anya wrenches her hand from Lexa’s grasp and leaves the way she came.

Lexa looks as defeated as she does seething mad, and Nyko’s soothing tone is lost to her petulance.

“You must heal.”

“I must be allowed to _fight_.”

“First heal, then fight.” Nyko reaches for a steaming clay cup in which he must have begun steeping tea when Lexa arrived. He raises it to her, indicating she should drink. “It will help your sleep be less fitful.”

Lexa takes it begrudgingly, perhaps knowing that even gentle Nyko has his limits and is not above pouring it forcefully down her throat. Given the way Lexa has treated her thus far, Clarke thinks she wouldn’t mind seeing that. She’s watching Lexa’s throat bob as she takes several short sips of the herbal sleep aid when Nyko turns to address her.

“Clarke, I must retrieve the elastic bandages from your mother to wrap the rib cage. See to the ledons. Clean them thoroughly. When I return, we will assess the one above her eye for further treatment.”   

“Okay,” Clarke nods.

Once Nyko is gone, Clarke moves in closer to the bed—a thin, worn mattress atop an old metal exam table, propped at a forty-five degree angle so that Lexa is more or less sitting at eye level. Clarke lays out her arrangement of cleaning cloths onto a nearby table.

Despite Lexa’s dour mood, Clarke makes an effort as she continues to organize her cloths by order of which she’ll need first. “Did Octavia finally get sick of you winning every round?”

Lexa’s face is stern, her eyes showing intermittent flickers of dark green from the low light. “Your presumptions are useless and do not serve well.”

“It wasn’t Aden, was it? That kid has barely hit puberty—pretty devastating loss for you, I’m sure.”

Lexa’s face remains dark and impassive.

Clarke sighs, rolling her eyes. “So, you’re not going to tell me what happened?”

“I did not realize idle chatter was part of the procedure.” Lexa’s tone is cold, but Clarke’s face burns hot with anger.

She’s never had a problem with any of the Nightbloods individually. Her disdain lies more within the entire construct of their superior identity. They are essentially a brand of royalty, their elevated status created by the original survivors and perpetuated by subsequent civilizations. Clarke finds this type of classist system to be problematic and unwarranted—a huge percentage of the population disregarded for leadership simply by fault of their lineage.

Meanwhile war-thirsty know-it-alls are raised to believe they outrank everyone else. Collectively, they annoy the hell out of her. As individuals, however, Clarke always assumed they were probably kind and welcoming. Egotistical, but essentially harmless. Much like the rest of the Trikru, she assumed Nightbloods were nice people, if not entirely misguided in their self-perceptions.

Lexa has quickly proved her wrong.       

“This will sting,” Clarke warns somewhat unkindly, reaching for her first cloth.

Lexa doesn’t respond, her mouth a thin, solemn line.

Clarke dabs a bit forcefully above Lexa’s eye without looking too closely at her work, and Lexa grimaces, though she won’t make eye contact. Clarke has an exceptionally careful hand, a ‘surgeon’s touch’ her mother has said, though she doesn’t think Lexa has earned the right to a gentle healer.

 (Clarke’s bedside manner is still a work in progress.)

Despite their proximity, Lexa’s eyes are adrift, cast off into the darker corners of the open room. The cleaning cloths are soaked in an alcohol solution, which wards off infection as much as it stings like hell. Clarke is celebrating that even a revered Nightblood like Lexa is just as susceptible to low levels of pain as any ordinary human when she pulls the cloth away and glances down at it in her hands, illuminated now by the candles on the nearby table. Clarke’s stomach bottoms out.

“Oh my god.” Her head snaps up to see Lexa has deigned to give her eye contact. Clarke gapes, for once in her life at a loss for words. “You have—” she looks back to the cloth, now stained in several places with Lexa’s blood. Lexa’s _black_ blood. She holds it closer to the candle flame to be sure it’s not a trick of her eyes. “I mean, it’s black. Your blood. Your blood is _black_. You—” she stammers.

Lexa is looking at her like she’s grown a third eye. “I am Natblida.”

“I know.” Clarke closes her eyes, shaking her head in hopes the shock will subside. “I know what you are, but I just never—” she opens her eyes again to stare at her lap. Even the tips of her fingers bear inky traces of Lexa’s identity. She looks up in disbelief at the blood on Lexa’s lip, the traces of it still along her cheek and above her eye. Though somewhat bathed in shadows, it is _so clearly_ different than her own. Realization hits her in the gut: “ _Blackblood_ ,” she whispers.

“Yes. Natblida,” Lexa repeats, like they are performing some ridiculous call-and-response used to teach foreign languages. She sounds more confused now than angry; it almost makes Clarke laugh.

“No, I know. I mean, I know that the translation is literally _black blood_ , I just can’t believe that I never knew that your blood is actually black.”

“Your teachings do not include a history on Natblida?” Lexa sounds scandalized at the prospect of her people failing to inform their Skaikru refugees of something so sacred.

“Of course they do. We’re taught of your … significance,” Clarke reassures, barely curbing an instinct to roll her eyes. “You’re each born to lead. Children of Nightblood lineage will go on to vie for the mantle of Heda.” she recites.

Lexa’s posture swells with importance, seemingly pleased with Clarke’s response. “Heda oversees as Commander of all known Trigeda _and_ the other four clans within our alliance.”

“Right. That too.” Clarke does roll her eyes then—the reality of being corrected by a Nightblood is infinitely worse than the notion of being loathed by one.

Lexa seems to contemplate her response before sighing and looking away. “It appears you have been given the relevant information then. It matters not that you were unaware of its physical properties.” When she meets Clarke’s expectant gaze, her eyes are resolute. “The color of my blood does not bear significance beyond what it represents.”

“And what does it represent?” Clarke challenges, curious in spite of herself.

“Leadership, servility, honor. We are chosen to serve as pillars of wisdom and strength for our people. To ensure survival above all else.” Clarke supposes that Lexa is now the one reciting the framework of her education.

She claims the color of her blood holds no significance, but Clarke can’t shake the feeling that it does. The Trikru are a spiritual people. That much became clear right away, setting the stage for a host of differences between people of ground and sky. To question the tenets of her beliefs would be to insult Lexa’s entire identity, and Clarke must bite her tongue to keep from pressing the significance.

The people of the Ark clung to science as a foundation for reasoning. Religion certainly followed them to space but gradually lost its significance over time. Her parents raised her to memorize the periodic table and scientific theories, to find comfort in the facts of empirical data. Lexa, in turn, has her own truths—a catechismal set of beliefs to explain the universe and its phenomena, including the blood in her veins.  

Even as the initial shock of her discovery wears off, Clarke’s mind begins to reel in other directions. “How has my mother never told me about this? How have I never seen a Nightblood treated for abrasions before?”

Lexa is scowling lightly as she repeats the word, “Abrasions.”

The Trikru dialect has its subtle variations and with it, the accents among its people tend to differ between regions. Wherever Lexa was born, or perhaps as a byproduct of being raised and educated in TonDC, her accent is modest. Though Clarke has heard her speak in the past, they have never actually spoken face-to-face until now. She finds she rather likes the sound of it—even as Lexa’s voice quietly stumbles over the unfamiliarity of an old, English medical term.

“Um, ledon,” Clarke clarifies, pointing an index finger to the spot above her own left eye where Lexa has been injured.

Lexa nods once, watching Clarke more closely now as she selects another cloth from the table. This one is soaked in a soothing balm that should help to alleviate the sting and mitigate scarring. Lexa’s gaze is constant, but no longer unkind. It seems that talk of her heritage has fractured some of the wall between them, and Clarke tries not to feel unnerved by the sudden attention.  

“Natblida are often treated near our own hous, the Nightblood huts," Lexa offers, unnecessarily translating common Trigedasleng for Clarke which almost makes her smile. "Titus prefers to preside over our healing.”      

Clarke manages to tamp down an encroaching smile enough to respond, “Oh. That makes sense.”

The blood is still filling the gap above Lexa’s left eye relatively quickly, pooling to the surface even as Clarke continues to apply pressure with various cloths. She may end up having it stitched after all—a technique brought to the fisas by her mother but still above Clarke’s level of expertise.

“For your lip,” she says, handing Lexa another bandage, this one wrapped around shards of ice. “It’s ice to reduce swelling.” During the winter months they can harvest ice directly from the river, but even as the days warm the Trikru have their methods for freezing water without electricity.

Lexa takes it, wincing only slightly at the initial contact and then relaxing. “Mochof.”

“So, why are you here then? Instead of near your living quarters?”

Lexa seems to deliberate her response, eyes falling to the cup of tea that she holds on her lap. She finally says, “It was a closer distance.”

Clarke nods, suspecting it’s as much information as she’s going to get now that Lexa has remembered her reticence.

Lexa removes the cloth from her mouth and takes a long sip of tea. “Anya thought it best Titus not be made aware the … full extent of my injuries.”

A smile works its way onto Clarke’s face, some small, unbidden delight in having a shared secret. “Oh.”

They lapse into silence again as Clarke resumes cleaning the blood—the _black_ blood, she’s still wrapping her head around the revelation—from above Lexa’s eye and the split in her lower lip. She cleans with more precision and tries desperately not to think about the fullness of Lexa’s mouth now that it has relaxed into something less severe.

Nyko takes over Clarke’s seat beside the bed once he’s returned to wrap Lexa’s abdomen, and they discuss the extent of Lexa’s ledon above her eye. No stitches, Nyko decides, as the cut is not as deep as the profuse bleeding might have led Clarke to believe. Already, it’s begun to clot.

“Your mother has asked me to send you to her ward,” he says, effectively dismissing her from the room even as Lexa has started to remove her shirt.

“O-okay,” Clarke stumbles to respond, moving backwards clumsily to place her used bandages into a bin for cleaning and sanitizing while trying to avert her eyes.

In the warmer seasons, she bathes at the river as is the Trikru custom—reducing the strain on their wells and pumps as well as the need for lumber to make warm baths. She has seen hundreds of other kids her age in various stages of undress on the riverbanks. Hot, private showers for Clarke  are a distant memory. Raven’s proclivity for nudity around their housing complex alone has left her unfazed by almost any display of nakedness. Not to mention, the Trikru place far less shame than Arkers had on nudity, and Clarke has more or less assimilated to this line of thinking.

Except her cheeks are burning at the sight of Lexa’s bared abdomen when she stops struggling in lifting her shirt to say, “Mochof, Clarke.” She pauses a second time before adding, “You will make a good healer.”

“Oh.” Clarke swallows. “You’re welcome, I mean, sha. Thanks. Thank you. Feel better.”

Lexa nods once, her mouth not quite a smile, and Clarke hurries like hell to make her exit.     

:::

“How did I not know this? How have you never _told_ me this?” Clarke is indignant, still somewhat disoriented by her recent discovery about the Nightbloods.

She and her mother are sharing a late dinner, home from the medical facility long after the rest of the Arkers would have prepared their own meals. The housing compound is still bustling, activity from their neighbors bouncing off the concrete walls, though the kitchen is empty but for the two of them. Her mother is the picture of calm, idly stirring a thin, flavorful broth which they heated over the woodstove to eat with crusty bread from yesterday’s market.

“I honestly don’t see that much of them. They’re treated almost exclusively by Nyko.”

Clarke frowns, dissatisfied. “But, you knew.”

“Yes, I knew of it.” Abby exhales, no doubt worn from another day on her feet. “Honey, where is this coming from?”

“A girl came into the ward today—a Natblida,” Clarke says, hearing the inadequacies of her own inflection compared to Lexa’s.

“Oh?”

“She’s fine. I mean, she’ll be fine in a few days. I think she may have cracked a few ribs.” Abby’s eyes go wide at that, but Clarke shakes her head. “The point is, I felt completely blindsided by not knowing that they’re blood is _black_.”

“Clarke—”

“I mean, what are the biological implications of that? How is the trait passed down? What are the irregularities between our blood and theirs? Between a common Trikru and a Nightblood?”

“Clarke, I think—”

“Was the abnormality intentional? A byproduct of the radiation?”

“Okay, okay, honey, slow down,” Abby soothes, reaching a hand across the open space of their table though Clarke is out of reach. “That’s a lot of questions.”

Clarke is flabbergasted, her mind racing still. “Don’t _you_ have a lot of questions?!”

“Of course I do.”

“Okay. And?”

“And, there’s not nearly enough hours in the day to answer them.”

“So, you haven’t even tried?”

Abby pushes the remainder of her soup away, perhaps realizing she won’t be enjoying the relaxing meal with her daughter she’d anticipated.

“Listen, the Nightbloods have their cultural significance for these people, Clarke, and there’s clearly a great deal we don’t know about their genetic variations. But, overall they make up a very small fraction of the population here. I can’t justify spending my time on that type of research. Not when I can be focusing on an exchange of medical knowledge with Nyko and the other healers—bridging a gap between our westernized practices and the incredible treatments they’ve uncovered over the years.”

Clarke slumps in her seat, the adrenaline coursing her body finally deflating as she hears the logic in her mother’s reasoning. “I guess so.”

After a few moments of quiet her mother asks, “So, who was the girl?”

“Huh?” Clarke blinks, her mind still adrift with swarming, unanswered questions. “Oh. Her name is Lexa.”

Abby hums, daring to reach for her bowl again but maintains eye contact. “Believe me, Clarke, I think your line of inquiry is valid. You just … get impassioned so easily, and—”

Clarke scoffs, now shoving her own bowl of soup away. “I do not.”

Abby smiles warmly, a mother’s knowing gaze. It’s completely infuriating. “Repairing the Ark’s module that first year? Building that damn chicken coop last summer?”

Clarke, though scowling severely, is quick to interject, “No one told me that wolves would prowl that close to the building or Raven and I would have reinforced the netting!”

“Okay, fine. I just wonder if this has more to do with the girl you treated and less to do with the Nightblood population at large.”

Clarke frowns in her mother’s direction, still incensed but also confused. “What the hell does that mean?”

“I’ve seen Lexa,” Abby shrugs, daintily eating a spoonful of broth. “She’s very pretty.”

Clarke gapes, horrified. “I—she’s—how does that even _—Mom_!”

“What?” Abby smiles more fully, taking another sip of broth. “You’re fifteen, Clarke. I can’t ask if you’re interested in someone romantically?”

“No! You _can’t_. And, I’m not.”   

“Okay,” her mother laughs. She _laughs_ at Clarke’s horrified expression. “But, if you’ve chosen to engage in sexual—”

“I’m not engaging in anything!” The legs of her chair scrape roughly against the concrete floors as Clarke abruptly stands. “I’m going to bed.”

“So, you’re not having sex?”

Clarke takes her bowl to a basin set up as a makeshift sink, sets it down with an exasperated _plunk_. “Are you serious right now, Mom? You know that Wells or Raven are in my bed most nights.”

“And you’re not having sex with either of them?”

“Oh my god, _goodnight_!”

“Clarke, wait.” Abby reaches out for Clarke’s wrist as she makes her way past the table, and Clarke halts without granting eye contact. “Look, I’m sorry. I just don’t want to become one of those families who doesn’t talk about things.”

“Fine. Can we just … talk about it later? Like in twenty-to-thirty years?”

“I think your questions about the Nightbloods deserve answers, I do. But, without the tools or facilities necessary for this type of research, even our best guesses seem futile at this point. Maybe you could bring it up with Nyko?”

Clarke sighs, thankful, at least, that they have moved beyond the topic of her nonexistent sex life, but nonetheless dissatisfied. “I’m really tired, Mom.”

“Okay,” Abby sighs, releasing the loose grip on Clarke’s wrist. She thinks of the way Lexa had held Anya in the same way and her stomach flutters strangely. “Goodnight, honey.”  

Clarke flops into bed moments later, barely managing to remove her boots and jacket, bone tired after another long day and now brain tired as well. She stares into the absolute darkness, thinking of her mother’s logical reasoning. It’s not good enough, and Clarke can feel herself slipping into a deep, sullen mood over Abby’s simple pragmatism about their limitations. Useless hypotheses are what she gets from Raven as mindless entertainment. She doesn’t want guesses. She wants answers.

:::

As luck would have it, which is to say that Clarke does not consider herself to be all that lucky, their classes are held at the training grounds the following morning.

“You look like shit.”

“And you weren’t at breakfast. Raz made potato cakes.”

Clarke grunts at her friends’ mutual expressions of concern, Wells always far less subtle with his affections than Raven. They’ve gathered with the rest of their class near a raised platform built for spectators at one end of the oblong training arena, and Clarke squints at the early morning sun.

“Didn’t sleep well.”

It’s not explicitly untrue—she slept horribly. Her mind drifts traitorously to Lexa again, wondering if the tea Nyko gave her to drink helped her sleep despite the lingering pain of her injuries. Clarke’s thoughts had already been spinning out of control when she returned home, and the brief conversation with her mom had only served to exacerbate the chaos inside her head. It wasn’t thoughts of Lexa _specifically_ that had kept her awake most of the night, but she had been the catalyst for Clarke’s inquiries.

“This is gonna be boring as fuck,” Raven complains to Wells disapproving frown.

Clarke looks around at the small clusters of younger Nightbloods—those not yet viable candidates for the responsibilities of Commander—who are scattered inside the wooden fencing, sparring lightly with one another. “Why are we even here?”

“Sadgeda fou,” Wells answers brightly.

Clarke fights back a yawn. “Wait, the Conclave? I haven’t heard anything about the Commander—is she okay? ”

While the confidentiality of his training often precludes sharing certain information with Clarke and Raven, Wells always has the inside scoop on the goings-on of TonDC.

“Sadgeda _fou_ ,” Wells reiterates. “More like, pre-Conclave—sort of like a preliminary round of tournament-style fighting between Nightbloods of different clans. The Sadgeda fou is done bi-annually regardless of whether an actual Conclave follows. And right now, the Commander is fine,” he assures.

Raven leans in closely, a conspirator even at first sunrise. “ _Allegedly_.”

Clarke has seen the Commander only once, though it’s said she travels her territories frequently to ensure stable borders and strengthen relations between clans in the alliance. According to Wells, it’s not uncommon for unannounced visits to TonDC, sometimes under the cover of night to converge with the Elders in secrecy. Heda is a beacon of hope and safety for her people as much as she is an elusive figurehead that reinforces the mysterious bloodline that gives her rise to power. She had arrived in TonDC shortly after the Ark landed—no doubt to assess this strange flock of people, rumored to have dropped from the sky. Clarke remembers her being rather impressive. Taciturn. Solemn. Intimidating. She said very little, speaking briefly to Kane and Clarke’s mother, and then she was gone.

“We’re not currently at war,” Wells continues. “There aren’t imminent threats on her life. Plus, she’s young and healthy—one of the strongest in generations.”

“So why the sneak preview?” Clarke asks, bobbing her head towards the arena.

Trikru law dictates that when Heda dies, subsequent Nightbloods are summoned to lead—determined by an intensely competitive battle of athleticism and intellect in Trigeda’s capital city, or what the Trikru call the Conclave: Sadgeda. There has not been a need for a Conclave since Clarke has been on the ground, though she’s studied its intricacies endlessly in school.

“Just a good, friendly competition between the clans under the banner of Heda’s alliance,” Wells explains.

“Friendly, my ass,” Raven scoffs. “More like the perfect time to stage a coup.”

Wells exhales a long-suffering sigh. “Raven—”

“What? I’m just saying, if it were me …”

Their progressive squabbling is lost to Clarke’s ears as Nightbloods continue to filter into the arena—faces familiar to her as well as kids from other clans she’s never seen. Without intending to, she realizes that she’s looking for someone.

Not _someone_. Lexa.

There had been a fleeting impulse earlier that morning, when she’d finally dragged herself out of bed and immediately thought of running by the ward to check on her. Such an impulse was jarring at best and mildly horrifying at worst, and in the end Clarke had blamed her mother’s outrageous insinuations for infiltrating her thought processes. Except Lexa wouldn’t have been at the facility receiving additional treatment from Nyko or the other healers, because she’s here.

Clarke’s mouth drops open by a breath when her eyes catch on Lexa’s face. All of the intensity of her eyes and the cut of her jaw, which had slipped into something less abrasive the night before, is back. Lexa apparently didn’t get the same memo as Wells that this is meant to be _friendly_ competition. She is trailed by Octavia, per usual, and another Nightblood called Luna. From this distance, it’s hard to assess Lexa’s injuries—her stance is too proud, her shoulders too squared, and her face too impassive to determine any levels of pain. She’s dressed in light armor, much like the rest of the Natblida surrounding her, made mostly of leather with metal clasps and buckles.

Clarke’s heart begins to race as Lexa roams a wide circle of the training ground, finally pausing in front of an arsenal of weapons used for sparring. At this angle Clarke sees her swords against her back—as much a part of Lexa’s identity as her braids and tattoos, but she also reaches for a wooden staff. Lexa tests its weight and alignment, examining it from end to end before spinning it effortlessly with one hand in a wide pattern. In light of her injury to the ribs, Lexa probably shouldn’t even be walking, yet Clarke realizes with some small amount of panic that Lexa is planning to fight.

“Yo! Are you even listening to me?” It’s not Raven’s voice that finally catches her attention but her rapid, snapping fingers placed two inches in front of Clarke’s face.

“Huh?”

“Where is your head this morning, dude?”

“Sorry, I’m—” only then does Clarke see Nyko at the far end of the arena, talking to a mentor of the Nightbloods. “Hang on, I gotta …”

Clarke is off and running around the perimeter of the arena as Raven’s exasperated _‘you gotta what?!’_ trails after her. When she reaches Nyko, she’s out-of-breath and his eyes cut to her even as he continues talking in low tones to the man in front of him.

“James, this is one of my fisa students,” Nyko eventually says, extending his hand towards Clarke so that the lanky man with dark skin and long, red robes must step back to see her standing there.

“Hello. Ai laik James.”

“Hei, James. Ai laik Clarke.”

“Clarke, did you need something?” Nyko asks.

“Inquiry is the basis for knowledge, which in turn, breeds wisdom,” James shares, his voice a pleasant baritone as it wraps around each word of the Trigeda proverb. “Please, do not let me keep you.” He exits their company with a small bow, and Clarke watches his long braids and red robes swish along with each broad step as he rejoins his fellow mentors and their Natblidas.

Clarke doesn’t pull any punches. “Are you really letting Lexa fight today?”

Nyko huffs what could be a laugh. “I assure you, Clarke, I have very little authority when it comes to what the Natblida do and do not do. But yes, Lexa was cleared from the fisa ward this morning.”

“But, her ribs—”

“They are merely bruised. Your nomon found no evidence of fracture in the bone.”

“My _mother_?”

“After our consultation, your mother and I released her into Anya’s care early this morning when Lexa woke.”

Clarke has half a mind to march directly over to the medical facility and demand an explanation (if she weren’t actively avoiding any and all contact with her mother since the invasion of her privacy the night before). She can’t think about _that_ —the accusations about attraction or sex or _whatever the hell_ her mother was implying—not with Lexa ten feet away and Nyko directly in front of her. Still, embarrassment creeps up the back of her neck until Clarke shakes it off by rolling her shoulders.

“If she’s injured in a fight, even the smallest fracture is susceptible to a larger, and much more dangerous break. We can’t just—”

“We can do nothing, Clarke, except to be ready with healing hands should they become necessary.”   

Nyko’s casual indifference is infuriating, and Clarke could scream at his calm demeanor. The Sadgeda fou is not life or death, but it does seem unnecessarily dangerous for someone with existing injuries like Lexa. Clarke unleashes her frustrations on the wooden fencing surrounding the grounds, grasping with both hands until her knuckles turn white. Lexa has started lightly sparring with Luna, moving with ease and agility despite the pain Clarke knows she is likely experiencing on her left side.

“Nou get yu daun, yongon. Have you ever seen Lexa fight?”

She grinds her jaw. “No, I haven’t. And, I’m not _worried_.” Clarke would rather stew in her frustrations than listen to Nyko’s gentle advice. She clenches the fencing against her palms, its sharp splinters on her skin a painful distraction from anything else.

“I believe your concerns will soon be alleviated, Clarke,” he adds and then stands quietly beside her.

She watches the Nightbloods engage in lieu of a response. She watches Lexa, specifically. It’s not that she cares about her, as if she and Lexa are now—well, they’re certainly not _friends_ after one, stupid conversation. Still, it feels like they might be something other than what they were, which was practically strangers. At the very least, they had been friendly to one another for a few, brief minutes. Frustrated at her own pointless musings, Clarke shakes her head. The point is, she would be remiss as a healer not to have a patient’s best interest in mind.

Lexa is good with a staff, but Luna is either more skilled or allowing Lexa a margin of error for the sake of her injury. She repeatedly avoids striking Lexa’s abdomen, tapping the end of her staff onto Lexa’s upper arms instead of taking a clear shot, which only serves to infuriate her opponent. In any case, it looks unbalanced and despite Nyko’s confidence, Lexa is clearly not functioning at full capacity. Sparring with a fellow Trigeda Nightblood is obviously friendly, but Clarke wonders what happens when the competition begins and Lexa comes up against someone from an outside clan?  

Either way, Nyko has been absolutely no help and Clarke is ready to make her way back to her friends when she looks up to see Luna watching her over Lexa’s shoulder. Luna’s mouth curves up in one corner and Clarke’s hands go slack against the wooden fencing. Luna is older, probably by a year or two. She has big, dark eyes and wild curls which frame a face that has Clarke’s palms sweating unexpectedly. Their breath of eye contact lasts no more than seconds, but it’s enough to have Clarke scurrying back to the raised platform with the rest of her class. Some days, being a teenager who was flung from space into a wartorn society full of strong, beautiful women can be really, fucking intense.

:::

“What the hell was that all about?” Raven whispers as Clarke shuffles in beside her, earning a disapproving glance from their instructor who has begun her brief lecture about the event they are about to observe.

Clarke clears her throat, maintaining eye contact with their instructor and mumbles, “Tell you later.”

True to Wells’ insights, the instructor goes into a brief synopsis of Sadgeda fou, no doubt for the benefit of the Arkers. Before long, a horn sounds signalling the start of the event. Natblida and their sparring partners clear the arena in a cloud of dust. Other members of the village have gathered as well, presumably even visitors from neighboring clans, and soon the first match is underway to the whooping and hollering of supportive bystanders.

They watch several rounds in which Lexa doesn’t fight, and Raven was right: it is infinitely boring.

At some point Wells is called away, whisked off by the Elders with the other intellectual geniuses, leaving Raven and Clarke sitting mostly alone. They are meant to be identifying each Nightblood and their opponent based on significant clan markers: colors, armor, even tattoos and ceremonial scars.

“Are you gonna tell me why you’ve been acting so weird this morning?”

Clarke exhales before responding, and her eyes drift around the open space aimlessly until they land on a familiar face. “If I tell you something, do you promise not to freak out?”

“You know I don’t believe in making promises, Clarke.”

“I treated a Nightblood last night. And their blood? It’s _black_.”

Raven eyes her skeptically. “What do you mean it’s black?”

“I mean, it’s _black_. Like, I don’t know, thick, black ink or something. Like nothing I’ve ever seen.”

“Gross.” Raven’s lip curls in disgust.

“Raven, this could mean that a subset of the population adapted to radiation by genetic mutation.” Now that Clarke has begun, she won’t be able to stop as a tangent is already gaining momentum along with her racing pulse. “Or, that something was done _purposefully_ to the hemoglobin, altering the reaction between the iron and oxygen to turn the blood from red to black. We thought they were just from a common lineage, distant cousins or something, but this is _way_ more involved. I mean, maybe the proteins were actually—”

“Woah, woah, slow down, Lady Blackwell.”

Clarke’s face scrunches in confusion. “Lady who?”

“Elizabeth Blackwell: first chick to earn a medical degree in ye olde US of A.”

“I can’t believe you know that.”

Raven shrugs. “We learned about her in, like, year six Old World History, and I have freakish recall, dude. I can’t believe _you_ don’t know that, Future Doc. I’m totally telling your mom.”

“Can we please stay focused?”

“Yeah, sorry. Okay, so: black blood. Go.”

“Right, so what I’ve been thinking is that—”

“Wait.” Raven puts up a halting hand and shakes her head. “This revelation, while compelling as fuck, still doesn’t explain why you showed up fifteen minutes late this morning, speaking in fragments, and then ran like hell over to Nyko like your hair was on fire.”

_Oh, right. That._

“Oh, um, that was just about a supply run later today,” Clarke lies. “He’s taking a group foraging down by the river, and I want in on the training.”

Raven hums, narrowing her eyes, and Clarke attempts a face of innocence. “Who was the Nightblood?”

“What?” Clarke stalls, heart hammering like she’s being interrogated for high treason.

“The Nightblood you said you treated—who was it?”

Clarke opens her mouth once or twice, trying like hell to form a simple, two-syllable name in the face of Raven’s accusatory smirk.

A resounding cheer goes up, circling the perimeter of the training grounds, and Clarke’s head snaps to the center of the arena. Lexa has entered the ring. She’s a bit of a village darling, though the running party line is that Trikru absolutely do not show favoritism among their Natblida. She’s being pit against someone twice her size—a boy from Podakru, who bears the silver markings of his clan. The Lake People are Trigeda’s farthest flung allies, situated inland from the coast by several hundred miles. TonDC isn’t quite coastal, but Clarke has been told they aren’t more than a day’s travel from a large bay of water.

Lexa and her opponent stand before the moderator in a mirrored stance with hands clasped behind their backs as they receive instructions for the match, and Clarke starts to spiral into panic.

“Ohh-ho-ho,” Raven chuckles beside her. “ _Damn_ , Griffin.”

Finally tearing her eyes away from the impending match, Clarke turns towards Raven with a confused scowl. “What?”

“The brooding Trigeda prodigy, dude? _Really_!?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the lady boner you have for your little Natblida patient out there.”

“Raven! I—”

“Go ahead,” Raven laughs. “Lie to me again.” Clarke splutters fabulously in response. “You took care of Lexa last night, didn’t you? At which point she apparently charmed your pants off—or shirt off? I don’t really know the order of ops when it comes to girl stuff,” Raven muses, her mouth twisting thoughtfully. “But, anyway, it explains why you were so, fucking urgent to talk to Nyko earlier, and why you look like your girlfriend is about to go into battle right now while you try to figure out how to stop her.”

“I—I’m not—” Clarke continues to stutter, much to Raven’s growing amusement as she arches an eyebrow and crosses her arms over her chest. “Lexa did not _charm_ me.”  

“Are you sure?” Raven circles an accusatory finger in front of Clarke’s eyes. “Because your face is saying something contradictory.”

“Throu daun!” The moderator’s voice rings out across the arena, effectively putting an end to Clarke and Raven’s dispute.

Clarke watches anxiously, but something becomes obvious quickly: Lexa fights, well, beautifully. It’s unfair that her brain attaches that descriptor to Lexa’s undeniable athleticism, but there isn’t really another word for it. She moves with grace, her deflections as effortless as her attacks. She’s forgone the staff in favor of her blunted swords, and Clarke is impressed in spite of herself. It appears Lexa will handily defeat the towering boy from Podakru when a deflection to Lexa’s strike throws her off-balance. His counterattack lands squarely on Lexa’s left side and she nearly collapses from the impact to her injured rib cage.

Clarke is on her feet, whispering to herself a quiet, “No.”

The boy recovers his momentum with a victorious grin—he’s found her weakness. Lexa attempts to regain her footing, but the sword in her left hand droops, no longer a lethal counterpart to the matching sword in her right.

“He’s going to break her ribs,” Clarke says aloud, though she’s not sure to whom. “I have to …”

Raven stands beside her, arms still crossed when she shrugs. “Clarke, Nyko is here. He’s not going to let her get hurt, okay?”   

“Nyko’s plan is reactionary,” Clarke argues. “He’s perfectly content to let her worsen the injury and attempt to fix the damage later.”

“Okay, so what do we do? Jump in there and stop the fight?”

Raven is obviously joking, but her comment has Clarke’s attention. All it takes is a beat of eye contact for Raven to start backtracking, but Nyko is motionless along the far side, and the Nightblood mentors remain as solemn as ever, and Lexa is risking irreversible damage the longer she’s allowed to fight.

“Clarke,” Raven warns. “Don’t.”

Impetuous behavior will likely be her eventual downfall, but in this moment, Clarke’s mind is made up. She hitches one foot onto the fencing, grabs ahold of the top rung, and hauls herself over the side of the fence and into the arena.

“Clarke, _wait_! I was kidding! You can’t just— _Clarke_!”

Her ears ring with coursing adrenaline, and Raven’s voice is like a distant, muffled plea. Ineffectual for the speed with which Clarke launches herself into the ring. From there it’s utter commotion and a single-minded focus driving her forward.

People are yelling from all directions. Nyko gets to her first, but there are Trikru warriors close at his heels. The moderator stands from his seat on a raised stage for the officiates and attempts to call order. Rapid Trigedasleng and loud scuffling hits Clarke from all angles while she’s wrapped in Nyko’s monstrous grasp and restrained. The match is halted as confusion swarms and then Lexa is advancing, as angry as Clarke has ever seen her.

“Know your place, Skaikru—this is not your battle.” Even now, Lexa’s breaths are ragged. She inhales sharply, lightly gripping her left side.  

Holding Clarke with the immeasurable strength of one arm, Nyko reaches out to direct Lexa with his other hand. “Lexa, please. Over here. Miya.”

He guides them towards a stretch of fencing where the rest of TonDC’s Nightbloods have gathered between matches. They watch the spectacle with wide, curious eyes.

Finally, Nyko releases his hold on Clarke. She jumps right in. “You’re hurt, Lexa, and a fractured rib could lead to—“

“Ai laik Natblida. That is all you need to know of me.” Even visibly embroiled in her anger, Lexa’s voice is a low register, measured and dangerous.     

“Lexa, what is the meaning of this?” A man approaches briskly, tattoos across his skull where hair should be. He wears the telltale red robes of a Nightblood teacher and a worried frown.

“It is fine, Titus,” Lexa assures him, taking a step back from where she had encroached on Clarke. “We will resume the match.”

“Have you sustained injury prior to Sadgeda fou?” Titus presses.

“Her ribs are at risk of breaking,” Clarke blurts out, unencumbered by Lexa’s lethal glare.

Titus moves in closer, his voice hushed. “Is this true, Nyko?”

“She was brought in last night,” Nyko sighs.

“I am fine, Seda,” Lexa insists. “I will win the fight.”

Titus deliberates briefly. He pulls a simple, white cloth from inside his flowing red robes and presents it to Lexa.  “You will concede the match. You will heal. To succeed is to learn, and to learn is to fail.”

Lexa grinds her jaw, responding only with a curt nod before Titus leaves their vicinity. Clarke swallows roughly, her heart still pounding. They are apart by only a few paces when Anya appears behind Lexa’s shoulder, not intervening but observing.

“Look, I’m sorry about the match, Lexa, but you could have sustained permanent damage. You could have punctured a lung. I just … don’t understand why you would take a risk like that.”

Lexa’s gaze snaps to hers like lightning. “You understand _nothing_. And yet your ignorance ruins everything.”

The venom in Lexa’s tone should have Clarke recoiling, but it flips a switch instead; she is seething in an instant. She takes a step forward, daring Lexa to stand her ground. “I understand things you never will. And your arrogance about the limitations of your talents doesn’t make you invincible, it makes you vulnerable. I could have saved your life out there, and instead of saying _thank you_ , all you care about is some stupid game.”

The way Nyko places a soft hand on her shoulder and warns quietly, “Yongon,” makes Clarke think she’s probably missing a few key points about the overall significance of Sadgeda fou, but she doesn’t care.  

Clarke startles to have Lexa step in closer, barely a hand between them when she snarls, “Keep your distance from me, Clarke. Oso _nou_ laik lukots.”

Lexa isn’t treated at the common village facility any longer for her sustained injuries, and Nyko doesn’t have to tell Clarke it’s because of her interference at the match. She knows. She knows she probably overstepped, but she can’t bring herself to feel any remorse. She stands by her decision, and she carries on with her training. She will hone her craft as a skilled healer for these people. In spite of Lexa, she furthers her investigation of Natblida with every resource she has available. It isn’t much, but Clarke is determined.

Though she admits it to no one, for a solid week following Sadgeda fou, Clarke falls to sleep at night to the echo of Lexa’s vitriol. _We are not friends. We are not friends. We are not friends._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I continue to maintain an intermittent presence over on the tumblr @ mopeytropey
> 
> Swing by the asks with questions or commentary :)


	2. Mebi oso na hit choda op nodotaim

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To become Heda subsumes her entire existence. 
> 
> Still, the distractions of a pretty face are commonly underestimated.

**_Summer_ **

 

“Nodotaim!” Anya barks. “Again!”

Breathless, Lexa resumes her stance. She is weaponless while Anya attacks with a short sword in her left hand and baton in her right. Both weapons are fashioned from wood for the purpose of training. Not that they are incapable of inflicting pain. For ages Lexa has worn the bruises of these tools from her sessions with Anya. As Lexa grows, fewer and fewer dark welts mark her skin as her reflexes quicken and her skills sharpen. Anya will advance and Lexa must wait—gauging her movements, timing her footsteps. Often in such exercises, they are mutually armed. Today they train in skills of weapon-taking, and Lexa is meant to overcome her opponent despite being defenseless. To disarm is to survive. She has so far survived 16 winters. Lexa is good at surviving.

The sun hangs high, a bright bulbous flame above them, heating everything it touches. Even this early into the warm season, the days are stifled by midday heat. Lexa’s arms and legs ache from hours of exertion, but Anya is as relentless as she is single-minded. Lexa is her designated Seken, a Nightblood apprentice in training, but someday she will no longer answer to her First. Lexa will become Heda, or Anya will die trying.

“Yu fig raun slows you.”

“Your words will not distract me,” Lexa challenges mid movement, deflecting the swing of Anya’s baton and sending it flying into the air in one, swift movement. A grin threatens her lips as she says, “Clearly my thoughts are of no consequence to my speed.”

She readies for Anya’s counterattack, anticipating the sharp sting of the blunted sword into her abdomen for such a remark. In general, Anya does not tolerate Lexa’s overconfidence. They are not meant to speak at all during these exercises, let alone to goad the other into retaliation. Titus would never approve of their shared barbs. Anya may be her First, but she is also her family—as much a part of herself as the skin on her back. Their exchanges during Lexa's training are as reflexive as her defense tactics in a fight.  

Anya lunges suddenly, overextending herself to Lexa’s advantage. With a quick grab of her wrist and twist of her arm, Anya is forced to drop the sword into Lexa’s waiting hand before it hits the ground. She exhales, celebrating the familiar grip of the short, wooden sword in her palm. The victory does not last, though Lexa’s bones and muscles beg for relief. A long soak in the river would be immensely satisfying. Even just to collapse onto the ground at her feet and lie motionless would suit her, but Lexa is already braced for the sound of Anya’s voice as she retrieves the baton and reaches for the sword.

Though they wear shirts without sleeves and short pants, perspiration has soaked the fabrics long ago. They stand facing and their brows glisten in the heat. Lexa can see her own waning intensity reflected in the eyes of her First even as she hands over the weapon.

Anya’s heavy breaths match Lexa’s as she commands, “Nodotaim.”

Lexa nods, tired but resolute. _Again_ , she thinks, may very well be her least favorite word.

:::

The warm season has been known to breed peace in TonDC and its surrounding communities. The markets are fuller, the crops more plentiful, and the long arc of the sun stretches its days pleasantly. Contentment among her people is infectious, even for Natblida who are not often afforded the same leisures as other Trikru. Lexa enjoys the heat and growth and life that bursts from her city during the months of sun.

She does not remember much of her life before TonDC—a child taken from her birthplace to train among the Natblida here. What she knows are the streets and the faces of TonDC, the aromas and sounds. It is the only home she remembers with any clarity. She was given up to instruction, to education, like so many others. She is told her parents were overjoyed and willing. To give birth to Natblida is a great honor. To have them train under the mentors of a city like TonDC, an even greater honor. Lexa does not mourn the loss of her childhood. She does not mourn the absence of her parents. There is nothing to gain in mourning for what is gone.

_To mourn is futile. To avenge is fleeting. To honor is to seek justice._

“Hei. Klinrona?” Octavia finds her sitting outside the small collection of huts built for Natblida.

In a rare moment of quiet contemplation, Lexa finds herself enjoying the late afternoon sun as she sharpens a favored knife that she keeps at her hip. The stillness is nice, though an evening swim in the river has its allure. Lexa has spent the day as she always does. Studying with Titus. Training with Anya. Both merciless in their pursuits of her achievements. She stands to her feet, stretching her arms above her head until her worn muscles pull taut.

“Sha.” Lexa sheathes her knife and gives Octavia’s upper arm a friendly smack. “Hoz op.”

An undercurrent of unrest between clans threatens this particular peaceful season. Her mentors do not have to say explicitly, Lexa has been educated to predict these things. She is perceptive. Trade has been irregular. The warriors have become restless—perhaps they can sense it too. Even the Elders have been more somber. War may be brimming for her people, and in time Lexa will have her role to play; but for now she enjoys the warm breeze and the company of an old friend.

:::

TonDC was settled along a great river that stretches north-to-south. It bends towards the Podakru communities of the North and widens as it flows south, emptying into the Great Bay. Lexa supposes that TonDC was once settled for the same reasons that Trikru re-established a community here—access to water for trade and transportation is just as important in this world as it had been in the last. The river does not run directly through their settlement but provides its westward border, beyond which is other, less populated Trigeda territory.

Octavia’s jaunt is lively and quick as they weave their way past homes and smaller plots of crops. Beyond the clusters of huts and tents lies the sparse forests, which separate TonDC proper from its river. With Octavia’s speed and size she would make an excellent scout. Quickness, agility, and a slight stature are well-suited qualities for Trikru fossopa that are tasked with patrolling their borders. Lexa keeps this observation to herself, knowing Octavia would rather die than be anything less than part of Heda’s valued gonakru. She will, of course, also make a skilled warrior and serve Heda well—ruthless in her loyalty as well as with her sword.

“It’s so hot, I’m jumping in straight away.”

Lexa does not often smile, though she detects the smallest twitch in her lips at Octavia’s proclamation. “Have you ever in your life waded into klinrona with any small measure of grace?”

“Shof op,” Octavia says over her shoulder, her smile open and free.

The riverbanks are rarely vacant during the warm season—bathing necessities give way to pure indulgence, especially for younger Trikru. They litter the grassy banks, jump from the rocks, splash in the shallows, and bob in the currents under a setting sun. It is a portrait of youth, though Lexa has never felt particularly youthful. The responsibilities of her lineage carry an imposed maturity that weighs on Lexa’s shoulders. She has always felt older and heavier than the sum of her winters. The river, though, she finds freeing. When Lexa is in its waters she does not feel the gravity of her existence. She is weightless.

Octavia has already stripped to her bindings, discarding her lighter clothing to the ground before Lexa has stepped to the water’s edge. As promised, Octavia bounds into the water indelicately. There are other Natblida here. Other gona kom nau, like Octavia. And Skaikru, too. And Clarke.

“Hos op and get in,” Octavia calls, already treading water a good length from the shore.

Large rocks are elevated above the riverbank, stacked at varying heights until some jut out over the water itself—perfectly suited platforms for launching oneself into the deep river below. Clarke is not jumping; she is sitting. For all that she is surrounded by movement and sound, Clarke appears alone on the rocks.

She is sketching into a small, bound book, undisturbed so it seems, by the chaos all around her. Natblida are rarely granted idle thoughts, but Lexa finds herself wondering what is in Clarke’s book, why she brings herself to the river if not to swim. Lexa finds herself wondering any number of things about Clarke more often than she would readily admit under penalty of death. Which is odd for many reasons, not least of which because they have not spoken since their heated confrontation at Sadgeda fou at least four seasons ago. Clarke has long since sparked a curiosity in her which Lexa denies repeatedly, even to herself.

“Clarke! Heya!” A voice booms over Lexa’s shoulder and she startles, embarrassingly, like a helpless kitten.

Clarke looks up at the sound of her name as Lexa turns to avoid eye contact, prepared to lash out angrily at the person behind her. Luna is grinning broadly even as Lexa shoves her backwards by two or three paces.

“ _Branwoda_.”

The insult only causes her smile to grow. “Lost in thought, strisis?” Luna’s dark, reckless hair drips moisture which runs in rivulets down her chest and arms from having been in the river. She ties it back with string and reaches for a nearby cloth to dry her face.

Lexa stiffens her jaw. “I am not your _little_ sister.”

“Sha, perhaps not,” Luna says, purposefully exaggerating her height over Lexa. “But you are small.” They are both relatively tall for their ages, but even Lexa’s considerable growth spurt since last winter leaves her looking up to scowl at Luna’s persistent grin.

“My thoughts are of no concern to you,” she responds, refusing to acknowledge Luna’s attempts to insult her height.

“To be Heda is to find favor in all.” Luna steps in closer, her gaze flicking pointedly over Lexa’s shoulder towards the rock structure at her back. “Never to show favor in one above the rest.”

“Mochof, for the unsolicited wisdom, but I have finished my lessons for the day.”

Sarcasm has no place in Heda’s vocabulary, and so by proxy, should never be found on the tongue of any Natblida aspiring to wear her mantle. Or, so her instructors have repeatedly told her.

Luna claps a hand to Lexa’s bicep. “Then why don’t you try to relax.” She brushes past her then, presumably headed for the rocks. Lexa employs the restraint of every strong-willed Heda before her not to turn around and confirm that she has indeed joined Clarke.

She values every member of her Natblida family, even those she has not met, and has always counted them as her brothers and sisters. Luna, the eldest of the Natblida here, complicates this dynamic. Although they value their education equally and train with matching fervor, Lexa knows that Luna has formed opinions of Heda’s identity that stray from the Natblida teachings. Teachings that have defined Heda’s existence since the beginning. For this reason, there has long since been contention between them, unsettled just below the surface of the blood that binds them.

Lexa calms her breathing and focuses on the sounds of nature. On the sun and sky and ground beneath her feet. She strips to her bindings and the loose cotton shorts that most Trikru girls wear as undergarments, kicking off her boots as she makes her way towards the water’s edge. She quickly sinks beneath the surface and into the current, allowing its loose pull to lift her limbs, letting it carry her away. When she re-emerges, her lungs are burning but she feels lighter. Better. Realigned with every life that breathes around her.

_The blood must breathe life to give life._

Octavia swims over and then treads water against the current. It is not at its strongest here—mild enough for even weak and unpracticed swimmers.

“What did Luna want?”

Lexa’s eyes drift to the rocks, though she had every intention to deny her curiosities. Sometimes, despite rigorous exercise to control her body and mind, Lexa’s eyes act of their own accord. It is increasingly frustrating that they betray her, intent on finding Clarke whenever she is near. Luna has found a spot beside her, as Lexa had predicted. The two of them are bent over her small book until a loud burst of laughter has Clarke leaning into the boulder at her back.

It is a reaction Lexa has previously only seen elicited by Clarke’s friend Raven, though Luna appears pleased at the outburst. Lexa immediately looks away, contemplating the merits of sinking back into the flowing river for a great length of time.

“To perturb my thoughts, of course,” she says instead, turning her back on the rocks. “A race. Sha?”

Octavia feeds off competition and can always be counted on to indulge Lexa’s challenges. She agrees instantly with an excited and violent splash against the water’s surface. “Yes! Aden, miya!”

One of the younger Natblida, a boy called Aden, eagerly swims in their direction. Lexa’s infrequent displays of affection are reserved for Natblida yongon, perhaps Aden most of all. He was a Nightblood found—his origins unknown, brought to TonDC after warriors discovered him abandoned on a forest floor. It is not often that Natblida are born male, even more infrequent that they rise to become Commander—perhaps one or two in the entire history of Lexa’s people. Aden, she thinks, would make a great Commander.

Octavia instructs him on determining the victor of their race, and Lexa observes her brother with the warmth of an older sibling as he grins and eagerly nods. Natblida are prohibited from competing in Sadgeda until they have survived 14 winters. At 10 winters, Aden is already a promising contender for his future Conclave. Confident that she will become Heda herself, Lexa briefly wonders if it will not be Aden who one day succeeds her.

“Lexa!” Aden calls out, waving from his perch along the far side of the riverbank. “Ai laik ogud for your race! Yu ogud?”

“Sha, Aden,” she calls back, allowing herself a rare smile before swimming to meet Octavia along the opposite shore. “I’m ready.”

She prepares her mind and body for competition. Albeit friendly, Lexa intends to win. She clears her head of its niggling distractions: vapid taunts, useless curiosities, piercing blue eyes.         

:::

Natblida gather each evening as the sun sets to sit and commune while food is prepared and served, often the result of their own hunting exercises. Outside, when weather permits, or inside a large tent near their sleeping quarters when temperatures drop. Lexa falls among the oldest Natblida of TonDC, along with Luna and another girl called Beth, but even the yongon are required to provide. Tonight they dine on a pair of rabbits Aden proudly snared, carrots, and small, ruddy potatoes plucked from the earth by the smallest Natblida among them. Two of Lexa’s strisis are not yet six winters, twins from the Lakes Region. One of which, Zara, sits at her right while Aden takes his usual spot at her left.  

Lexa does not have prominent mothering tendencies, but she is fiercely protective of her blood-bound family. Even those with which she rarely sees eye-to-eye.

“There is no merit in bloodshed,” Luna is saying, continuing her drabble of which Lexa has been trying to ignore. Beth is rapt beside Luna where they sit opposite Lexa and Aden at a long, wooden table.

The breeze is light and mild, the food well-prepared and flavorful. If only the pleasant atmosphere were not polluted by Luna’s anti-war rhetoric. “Is peace not something worth the price of bloodshed?” Lexa challenges, pretending not to notice as Zara slips a second carrot off her plate and shoves it into her mouth.

“The ideals of peace and war are at odds,” Luna argues. “How can we assume that one will lead to the other if you must abandon the ideals of peace in order to wage wars?”

“We do not make peace with our allies. We must fight against those who seek to oppose us. To fight for life is to fight for peace.”

They have spoken this topic in circles countless times. Lexa believes in the principles of their teachings. She relies on the experience of her mentors, on the progress of past Commanders, and on Heda’s alliance. There is dangerous vulnerability in refusing the prospect of war. Luna does not agree, and for this reason their debate continues to spin ineffectively.

“You will someday broaden your scope of understanding, Lexa, and when your world cracks open there will not be Trigeda proverbs enough to make sense of its chaos.” She presses a firm hand to her chest, dark eyes burning as she matches Lexa’s steady gaze. “There must be balance here: tombom. Your heart matters. Not only what you know but also what you _feel_.”

“I feel hungry!” Zara exclaims, and Lexa, for all that she wants her chance at rebuttal, is glad the moment has been broken by innocence.

Luna smiles, reaching across the table to poke Zara in her stomach, bringing light laughter into the night air. Lexa’s mouth lifts as well, something smaller and succinct, as she looks down at her giggling strisis. Luna’s words, while Lexa still refuses to give them weight, continue to play through her mind and plague her sleep.

:::

Anya will very likely have her head for this. She could attempt a well-crafted fallacy about furthering her training, about a desire to hunt, about meditation among the trees. It would not matter. Anya has never been fooled by Lexa’s feeble excuses, well-crafted or not.

The truth is: Clarke kom Skaikru wandered into the woods by herself, and Lexa followed.

Lexa does not think that after three winters on the ground any member of the Ark necessarily qualifies as a person of the sky. Even their vessel which transported them here no longer exists, except in fragments and mementos. In fact, there is no _Skaikru_ to speak of. Except that there is. They are not exactly Trikru, though they have adapted into society rather seamlessly. The people of the Ark evade definition in many ways. Clarke, certainly, is quite different from anyone Lexa has ever known. In fact she has never felt so dissimilar to another person. Clarke could very well still live between the spaces in the stars for all the distance Lexa feels between them.

Currently, Lexa marks thirty paces between her quiet steps and the back of Clarke’s sun-streaked head. They have wandered away from TonDC by nearly an hour, according to the sun’s arch. Clarke is like an infant pauna, loud and clumsy—crunching leaves and breaking twigs with no regard for silence. Whatever it is that pulls Clarke deeper into the woods, she clearly does not intend to keep her presence unknown. It is irrefutably unsafe, and Lexa has nearly convinced herself she is performing some noble act of protection for a member of Skaikru instead of admitting to her own, blind curiosity. Clarke is sturdy but slight and could easily be taught to navigate the forest floor with more precision. Lexa’s mouth twitches at the suggestion, imagining how well Clarke might take to instruction or criticism from someone like herself.

When Clarke pauses near a collection of low foliage, Lexa stops as well, watching curiously as she examines small details of the plant. She slides a leaf between her fingers, brings her nose to its broad green surface, then carefully plucks a handful and places them into the bag slung across her body. Clarke’s purpose is then easily revealed: she is foraging, presumably for Nyko and the fisas. For her training. For her education. Clarke is impetuous and stubborn, impossibly headstrong, and not very subtle—dangerous qualities for someone still learning their place on the ground. But Lexa had not been wrong. Clarke will make a very good healer.

Why she has decided to forage by herself, likely unarmed, and noisily at that, Lexa will never—

The cracking twig is a halting interruption to Lexa’s wandering thoughts. It is too distant to have come from Clarke, and Lexa’s head snaps to attention, her senses immediately attuned to other indications of who or what is in the vicinity. Clarke does not seem to have noticed, still inspecting the foliage before her. There are other sounds of its approach, growing closer but not quicker, and Lexa closes the distance between them by half.

“Clarke.”

Her name on Lexa’s tongue is barely a whisper, but Clarke is too busy scratching symbols into her book to notice. Lexa moves again, now three paces to her left. She needs to alert Clarke to the potential danger without alarming her. This, of course, proves wildly unsuccessful because Clarke is an infant pauna.

“ _Clarke_.” Again a whisper, but with some heightened urgency.

“Shit!” Clarke jumps, stumbling into the brush, her voice a register too distinct and too loud to have not been heard by whatever else shares these woods.

Lexa reacts without any thought beyond imminent safety, sweeping a hand around Clarke’s mouth before spinning them both against a nearby tree. From the direction of the incoming noise, they will be out of sight until Lexa can further assess. At the abrupt impact, as well as finally cluing in on Lexa’s presence, Clarke’s eyes shift from shock to anger in two, short breaths. She shoves against Lexa’s stomach with both hands, trying to speak, or knowing Clarke, attempting to shout past the hand constricting her mouth.

“Please. You must be still.” Lexa’s command is hardly audible, and Clarke, unsurprisingly, does not appear willing to comply. She does cease from pushing urgently against Lexa’s abdomen. At the very least.  

Curiously, Lexa finds that she must look away to keep focus—the sharp, icy blue of Clarke’s eyes a deafening effect on her senses. The moment that Lexa looks into the near distance for signs of movement, Clarke bites her hand. Had Lexa not been trained extensively on managing her pain tolerance, she might have cried out and given them away. As it is, she grimaces harshly but keeps her hand in place, wrenching Clarke away from the tree to throw them onto the ground.   

She uses her limbs to pin Clarke beneath her, an audible struggle that will have them found out in minutes. Lexa speaks low and fast, urging Clarke to cooperate. “There is something approaching, and we must remain hidden to avoid potential danger, Clarke. Beja. Just be still.”

She is still visibly angry, but Clarke stops fighting against her and her jaw goes slack enough for Lexa to cautiously pull her hand away. At least two digits are throbbing red and bear indentations from Clark’s teeth.

“Just keep your hands off of me,” Clarke growls back just as quickly, shoving at Lexa’s chest and arms until she noiselessly moves aside.

They lay there, breathing quietly into the same small space, waiting and listening. They have the upper ground from whatever is approaching, if only by the slightest degree. There is the knife she keeps at her hip and two smaller blades in each boot, but Lexa remains entirely still in hopes she won’t need them. She keeps her expression blank, her eyes hardened in concentration despite the short puffs of breath she can feel across her neck from where Clarke is laid along her right side.

As her senses realign and she registers their surroundings more closely, a darker, sinking feeling consumes her. Not only have they potentially encountered incoming danger, Clarke has veered outside of claimed Trigeda land. Lexa had not been paying attention enough to notice. The approaching sound of numerous footfalls against the forest floor indicates human travelers, not woodland predators. Whoever is passing through these woods in their direction is not obligated to the peace treaties that Trikru boundaries ensure. She and Clarke are on middle ground—unclaimed tof. A young Natblida  and fabled Skaikru member would be a handsome capture for any unfriendly clan looking to barter. The hairs at the base of her neck stand on end.

The Trikru of TonDC are not often granted passage across Trigeda borders without cause, but as a Natblida Lexa is explicitly forbidden. It will perhaps be Titus who has her head for this after all, though Anya will certainly want her pound of flesh as well.

Her mentors offer themselves entirely to her survival. They work to ensure Lexa’s rigorous physical training and unflinching dedication to a greater cause. To become Heda subsumes her entire existence.

Still, the distractions of a pretty face are commonly underestimated.

Berating herself for her carelessness is as futile as it is untimely. The noise she had heard moments earlier finally reveals itself just below where she and Clarke lay in the leaves and brush of a large shrub.

Three travelers. A hunting party—fresh kill slung over the shoulders of a woman who is led by another woman and trailed by a young boy. The boy is perhaps two winters less than Lexa and wears the markings of Ouskejon. The people of Blue Cliff are nomadic, not known for violence. Nor have they aligned with any known enemy of Trikru despite not being sworn members of Heda’s Alliance. Lexa feels an acute relief. Danger, though not out of the question, is unlikely.

As the Ouskejon pass below them, Lexa’s posture begins to slacken. Clarke must sense this unspoken relief because she shifts against her as the hunting parting gradually moves past. Lexa looks over, breath momentarily caught in Clarke’s questioning gaze as if to ask: _are we safe_?

Lexa offers her a short nod, and feels too, the way Clarke’s body relaxes. When she is sure the hunting party have moved a safe distance beyond them, Lexa reiterates aloud, “We are not in danger.”

“Then why the _hell_ did you tackle me to the ground?”

With the fear of danger gone, it seems Clarke is no less angry than when Lexa first apprehended her. Lexa can’t say she expected any less. Remembering her bitten hand, Lexa scowls as she climbs gracefully to her feet. Clarke immediately sits up as well, dusting bits of dirt and leaves from her clothes. She ignores Lexa’s proffered hand and stands to her feet before crossing her arms, awaiting Lexa’s response.

“We remain in an unsafe location. These lands are not regulated nor protected by Trigeda.”

“What are you talking about?” Clarke frowns.

They stand at a respective height, though Lexa has been inching taller by the seasons even as Clarke appears to be tapering off at her current stature. She doesn’t know why it matters, but Lexa is pleased by the near prospect of having a height over Clarke. The thought is without merit, and Lexa quickly brushes it from her mind. She has already afforded herself too much insignificant contemplation today and begins to reexamine their surroundings instead. The progression of the hunting party precludes returning to TonDC the way they came, but Lexa’s first priority is getting them back across the border.

She locates the setting sun through pockets of leaves overhead and begins walking briskly in the direction that will place them back onto Trigeda lands, expecting Clarke to follow. “We have to go. Now.”

“Wait, why are you going that way?” Clarke calls after her. “Home is back this way. And you never answered my question.”

“You have crossed us outside Trikru territory.”

“No I haven’t,” Clarke argues, always vindicated by her petulance.

As much as Natblida do not entertain sarcasm or absent musings, they certainly do not scoff in the middle of conversation, yet Lexa must employ great restraint against all these things when in the presence of Clarke. She turns, suppressing her exasperation to find Clarke four or five paces away, unmoved and arms still crossed.

“Tell me, Clarke,” Lexa begins, sweeping an arm through the air as she speaks, “who between us has trained in these forests since childhood? Were you raised among the leaves and branches of these tris? Do you know them as your own skin?”

Clarke does scoff, and Lexa envies the expression. “Lexa, I’m telling you: this is Trikru land. I walk this same path to forage almost every day.” She is persistently unconvinced by anyone presuming to know more than her, and Lexa finds it incredibly infuriating.

“Then you have been crossing outside of our borders every day. Quite unwisely,” Lexa adds. Admittedly, she has previously noticed Clarke wandering into the forest without company, but never before felt inclined to follow. Lexa’s mind momentarily lingers on Clarke’s safety and a panic rises, unbidden—all the ways in which she could have been harmed in these woods. She forces her panic into the shape of anger and says, “You could have been killed.”

“I’m not defenseless out here, you know. Anyway this area is totally safe—before today I’d never even seen another person out here.”

“The safety you perceive begins and ends with your naïve ignorance.”

Even from this distance, Lexa sees Clarke’s eyes narrow. Lexa, in turn, tenses her jaw and looks away. They argue for nothing and waste precious, fading light from the sun. The dense forests darken much more rapidly than their settled village. She regains her focus and starts off down the slope of land that will bring them back to the river, across which is protected Trikru territory. She doesn’t look to be sure that Clarke has followed but hears her stumble after her by way of Clarke’s unruly footfalls.

After a beat of gifted silence, Clarke is back to her incessant commentary. “Going this way will take us twice as long to get home. If Blue Cliff are a friendly people then what does it matter if we cross paths?”

It’s true there is no real cause for alarm—an Ouskejon hunting party is no threat. Still, something bites deep into her gut, warning against another encounter. Lexa has learned to trust her instincts explicitly, following a hapless Skai girl into the forests notwithstanding.

“We cannot return the way we came.” It is not quite an answer, but it is all that Lexa can bring into words. “There is safer passage along our borders, which we will reach more quickly this way.” Clarke is now close behind her. The faster she moves the more noise she creates, and Lexa can resist her criticism no longer. “Must you plod along at such a volume that can be heard from Louwoda Kliron?”

Clarke scoffs again. “Shallow Valley is over a hundred miles from here. And, I’m not making any more noise walking through this brush than you are.”

“I can assure you that you are.” Lexa pauses, checking tree lines, the arc of the sun, and the markers that indicate Trikru borders. Clarke stops beside her, catching her breath.

They’ve been making their way across a soft, downward slope. Lexa can now hear faint sounds of gurgling water—a narrow brook that stems from the much larger river which passes directly through Trikru territory and serves as border between lands. She continues onward without a word, determined to reach klinrona before other potential dangers find them. Clarke, of course, is never deterred by intentional silences.

“It’s a little strange that Blue Cliff would be hunting way out here, isn’t it? So close to Trikru land?”

Lexa sighs but does not slow her downward pace, hardly registering Clarke’s observation. “Do you ever tire of hearing your own voice?”

“Okay, I don’t know why the hell you’re acting so annoyed here— _you’re_ the one who followed _me_.”

They’ve reached the brook, forcing Lexa to pause and assess the best place to cross. She scowls at Clarke’s accusation but does not meet her eye. “I did not follow you.”

Clarke crosses her arms, eyebrows raised. “Then what were you doing out here?”

Lexa does not need to see Clarke’s face to know she is pleased with herself for having challenged Lexa’s dishonesty. Unfortunately, she _can_ see Clarke’s face, peripherally, easily marking the traces of her amusement and making the lie twice as difficult to maintain.

She reaches for the worn, leather hilt of the knife at her hip and looks out across the water. “Hunting.”

Clarke, for once, says nothing.

“We will cross here,” Lexa decides. The current is mild and the brook is fairly shallow. She points to the west. “Trigeda land begins where the river bends.”

Clarke looks up to the sky in search of the waning sun. Already long shadows stretch behind them. “Far?”

“Not far.” Lexa steps into the current, feeling the cool water seep into her boots. She turns to Clarke. “Ogud?”

Clarke nods once. “Yeah, I’m ready. Let’s go.”

The water courses around Lexa’s ankles, soaking the thin fabric of her pants while barely reaching her knees. The pull is not strong, nor the water deep, but the rockbed beneath is slick. Lexa moves with caution, centering her balance and navigating slowly across the short distance. Over her right shoulder Clarke struggles to find traction as well, clutching one hand to the bag slung across her chest and extending the other into the air to keep herself from tipping over. Lexa hesitates, grinding her jaw.

Clarke’s eyes flash in anger as Lexa extends a hand. “I’m fine,” she snaps, nearly losing her footing even as she refuses Lexa’s help.

Should Clarke ever suffer the loss of her sight, she would likely prefer to knock about on her own, relearning her senses independent of anyone’s helping hand. Perhaps Lexa’s in particular. She can admire such fierce autonomy as much as she also thinks Clarke could benefit from learning her limitations and accepting support. Lexa is capable of many things, confident in her abilities to fight, to lead, to survive. But, she must also rely on the strengths of others if she is to fulfill her duty as Commander some day.  

_Heda’s strength does not weaken as it spreads but is shared among her people as they grow._

In two, careful steps Lexa has reached the opposite riverbank. She grabs hold of a thin, smooth trunk— the base of spindly trees which grow along the rivers with gnarled limbs—and pulls herself onto dry ground.

In the same instant, Clarke shrieks and slips, and Lexa turns towards the water when Clarke cries out again. She splashes back into the brook without thought, reaching Clarke in three, broad steps. Clarke has fallen into the water completely, her shoulders above the current as she scrambles to keep her bag from getting completely submerged. Lexa reaches for Clarke’s elbow and then stops, thinking better of it. The water surrounding Clarke has begun to fill with blood, clouding red and dissipating before being swept away.

“Clarke. You are injured.”

“It’s my knee,” Clarke winces, still holding her bag above her head. “Shit, my bag! Can you take this?”

“Let me help you stand.”

“Just take the bag, Lexa, _please_!”

She can’t imagine why Clarke is so pressed to preserve medical supplies like roots and leaves, of which the forest has endless supply, but Lexa takes the bag with a heavy sigh and tosses it onto the nearby shore. Clarke is attempting to stand on her own, struggling to maneuver with an injured leg, when Lexa grows tired of her stubborn foolishness.

“Clarke. You cannot stand alone.” She thrusts her hand closer, daring Clarke to ignore sound logic. “We must recognize our limitations.”

Clarke whimpers in a third attempt to get on her feet, but her pained expression turns to anger as she finally reaches for Lexa’s hand. “Hypocrisy at its finest,” she spits out as Lexa easily hoists her out of the water.

She does not think now is the time to ask Clarke to explain her animosity and adamant refusal of Lexa’s aid, but it continues to plague her thoughts. They are rapidly losing sun, and safety within Trigeda land is now farther out of reach with Clarke’s injury. Even against Lexa’s sure hold, Clarke struggles to balance, unable to place much weight on her injured leg. Lexa quickly scans for the damage and finds a large tear along Clarke’s left knee—her pants ripped open and blood gathering rapidly now that her leg is above the water. With Clarke gripping her hand, they gradually make their way across until Clarke is able to crawl onto the grassy banks and collapse beside her bag. Lexa sits beside her, catching her breath, and watches the sun disappear behind the trees.

She allows a brief silence to stretch between them while Clarke pokes and prods at the ledon along her knee, examining its severity with a fisa’s precision. Even still, she hisses in pain as her fingers probe the skin. The wound is not nearly fatal, but it will certainly slow them down.  

Lexa’s tone, when she speaks, is softened by precaution. “Can you walk?”  

“I don’t know,” Clarke answers just as softly, and already her voice sounds worn.

Things have gotten impossibly worse. Lexa closes her eyes. Anya and Titus may very well join forces with the express purpose of exacting multiple punishments for Lexa’s irresponsible behaviors.

Still, she must not linger on her failures; a plan begins to formulate as Lexa opens her eyes. She almost doesn’t want to ask, “Do you have a weapon?”

“What?” Clarke looks up from her leg, frowning.

She pulls one of her smaller blades from her boot and displays it to Clarke, one eyebrow arched above the other. “Shuda.”

Clarke rolls her eyes, nodding towards her supply bag. “I bring a knife with me. I’m not an idiot.”

Lexa tosses her knife atop the bag between them anyway and stands. She decides not to question whether Clarke has ever used a knife to defend herself, knowing the answer would likely be discomforting. “I will be back shortly.”

“ _Wait_ , Lexa—you’re just—where are you going?”

She is already several paces away, headed off in the direction of the setting sun. “Convene with your silence, Clarke. I will return before long.”   

:::

By the time Lexa returns, Clarke has emptied her bag of its contents and removed one of her shirts. She sits in a thinner, sleeveless top that scoops along her neck and back—a Skaikru style of undergarment with an odd name that Lexa cannot recall. Clarke has used her other shirt to bind her leg and slow the bleeding, tying it just above her kneecap. The blade Lexa gave her has been thrown into the grass by her feet. Lexa rolls her eyes as she approaches and bends to retrieve it.

Clarke looks up from sorting through the contents of her bag. “Where did you go?”

Replacing the knife to her boot, Lexa stands with determination, squaring her shoulders. Clarke, she knows, will fight her on this. “We will not make TonDC by nightfall, and it is unsafe to travel across this ground in the dark. Considering the injury to your leg—”

“I’ll be fine.” Already she makes futile attempts to stand. “We can make it.”

Lexa’s folds her hands behind her back and forges on. “A transport from Before once ran a nearby route not far from here. Sections of its track still remain and beside it are structures that will make for adequate shelter.”

“Lexa, _no_.”

“It is a feasible distance before the light is gone, and I have confirmed that it is safely within Trigeda territory. We will not be home, but we will be safe.”

“I can’t just—no. We _have_ to get back, Lexa. My mom will be—”

“I assure you, Clarke, you are not the only one who will have to answer for the cost of this mistake.”

Lexa implores Clarke to relent, her steady gaze a silent plea. Already they risk losing all of the light before reaching the shelters Lexa has discovered. Clarke looks away, her eyes on her leg and the blood staining her fingers.

“Fine. Let’s go.” Defeated, she concedes, and Lexa slowly exhales.

Clarke allows Lexa to help her to her feet, this time without a prolonged argument. Maybe she is finally tiring of their endless confrontations. Lexa doubts the prospect, but she is hopeful. Grabbing both of Lexa’s hands, Clarke stands to full height. Though she cannot place much weight on her left leg, she releases Lexa’s hands promptly, determined to find her balance independently.

The ground slopes beneath their feet, but beyond the ridge the terrain evens out to a less severe incline. It is not a far distance, but it is without question Clarke will have to accept Lexa’s assistance to clear the ridge. She keeps quiet, deciding it is best to let Clarke come to that conclusion on her own. Meanwhile, she reaches for Clarke’s bag and the discarded book Clarke has left in the grass.

“Leave it,” Clarke says, and Lexa looks up from the book in her hand. “It’s ruined.”

Lexa slings the damp bag over a shoulder while Clarke grasps for anything that isn’t Lexa’s hands to help brace her weight as she hobbles up the slope. She scrambles for quick seconds before pausing again, no more than two paces ahead of Lexa. Lexa looks down at the bound book in her hand, its covering soaked through and its charcoal scratching bleeding down the damp pages. It is why Clarke had struggled to keep the bag above water, to little success. Lexa exhales shortly before sliding it into her own pocket and climbing to meet Clarke where she still stands.

She says nothing, merely extends her forearm in Clarke’s direction and looks ahead: a silent offering. She expects Clarke to swat her away, like a nuisance, and nearly balks in surprise when Clarke’s hand lands on her arm instead. A strong, sure grip.

:::

It takes twice as long to reach the transport structures as it had taken Lexa alone. Clarke, who had remained uncharacteristically quiet as they slowly made their way, halts in surprise as they come into the clearing. The trees part above them, revealing the old iron tracks and three, large, rectangular structures beside it made of steel and covered in soft, green moss.

“Oh my god. Are those actual train tracks? And boxcars?”

“They were once used to transport goods from place to place,” Lexa answers confidently.

The technology aboard the Ark allowed Skaikru to maintain a more comprehensive knowledge of the time Before; whereas Lexa’s people mostly passed down information necessary for survival. The exchange of culture and language and history with Clarke’s people has been an interesting experience. Their histories are no less significant—no recollection greater than the other. The dissimilar accounts of ground and sky, after all, share a common origin. And yet, it is easy to forget how closely they are linked, standing beside someone who once hovered above her like the stars.

“Right,” Clarke smiles—the first Lexa has seen all day. It is worrisome how her chest begins to expand at the sight, a kind of uncomfortable tightening beneath her skin. Clarke’s gaze returns to the tracks in front of them, and Lexa swallows. “I never thought I would see any of this stuff with my own eyes.”

“The … boxcars?” Lexa says, feeling the discomfort of an unknown word between her teeth.

“We had pictures of them, the trains with their cars and engines and whatnot. We had digital pictures of _everything_ ,” Clarke sighs. “But actually seeing things like this, right in front of me. I don’t know.” She shrugs, but the movement does not dislodge her hand as it still rests along Lexa’s forearm. “I never get tired of it.”

Lexa watches Clarke’s profile as her eyes flit across the structures in front of them, still taking it all in. They stand in shadows, the sky already streaked in greys and darkening blues. The sun is gone, but its light still gradually fades from the sky. “We need to set up camp before the light is gone.”

“Okay.” Clarke looks back to her with another tired smile. It spears Lexa’s gut like a blade.

She grabs for the hilt of her knife with the hand that isn’t supporting Clarke and looks away, frowning at the sensation. Lexa does not have extensive knowledge on the matter, but she does not believe the effects of a single smile should be so severe. She shudders to think what Anya might have to say about the entire matter and vows to never speak of it.  

“I will gather wood and something to eat once you are settled.” It is as much civility as they’ve exchanged in a year’s time, and Lexa’s growing discomfort fights against an urge to make Clarke smile more often.

“Yeah,” Clarke sighs. “Okay.”

Perhaps some meditation and solitude will ease Lexa’s mind of these troubling thoughts. She will center herself among the trees and wind. She will hunt and trap and give thanks. Taking life to sustain life. She will clear her head of its mounting distractions, including the tilt of Clarke’s mouth as she smiles in Lexa’s direction.  

Lexa builds a fire before setting off to hunt, though Clarke argues valiantly that she is entirely capable of “making faya.” Had it not been for the immobilizing injuring to her leg, Lexa would have rather enjoyed observing Clarke’s skills at fire building. She leaves her propped within the opening of a boxcar turned on its side, like the wide mouth of a cave.

:::

She spends her days performing combative exercises, memorizing land maps, analyzing battlefront strategies, and reciting the tenets of her people’s valued history. Lexa’s mind is sharp and focused, veritably immune from the common diversions of youth.

Except, as it seems, for Clarke.

She has been drawn to others before, has felt the allure of attraction despite not being granted the freedom to see it through. There was the visiting clan from Trishanakru—the girl with brown eyes and brown hair and brown skin who first revealed to Lexa the glowing wings of enchanted butterflies from their forests. Anya allowed her interests to withstand the three-day festival, which celebrated Heda’s newest alliance with the people of Glowing Forest, but then the girl and her butterflies were gone. The only thing that remained was Anya’s brutal teasing of Lexa’s doe-eyed infatuations with Costia kom Trishanakru. Clarke is not Costia. Lexa does not even feel necessarily drawn to her.

(Despite having recently followed her into a dense wood out of sheer curiosity.)

Clarke is more like a puzzle she cannot solve, and Lexa finds it maddening. It is not often that she feels confounded, least of all by other girls, and she does not enjoy the discomfort. Clarke is peculiar and headstrong, brazen in her confidence as an exotic, foreign healer from the skai—Lexa finds her as intriguing as she is absolutely infuriating.

Her time alone in the darkened forest does calm her. Realigns her focus on the greater purpose she has been chosen to fulfill. Whether it is the scent of balsam on the warm breeze that settles her racing thoughts or simply a generous distance from Clarke, Lexa cannot be sure. She returns to their meager, would-be camp feeling refreshed—a light kill slung over one shoulder, a full waterskin, and sweat on her brow from the exertion of the hunt. Clarke is sat where she left her, illuminated by the moderate glow of the fire and working with one of Lexa’s knives to cut away the fabric of her pants so that she can better tend to her injury.

Lexa takes the kill off her shoulder and holds it in front of Clarke by its long legs. “Thompa.”

Clarke looks up, her face inscrutable. “You caught a rabbit. In complete darkness. With a knife.”

“Sha,” Lexa answers, fighting against her swelling pride and the way her lips threaten to curl upwards. Clarke’s expression is one of open shock and admiration—it is no wonder why Lexa had not recognized it.

“I’m sure you don’t need another person telling you how fucking great you are, but that’s pretty impressive.”

Lexa absorbs the backhanded compliment with grace. “You train as fisa. You learn to mend and heal. I am trained for this.”

“To kill?” There is a challenge in Clarke’s tone that Lexa thinks she has heard before.

“To survive.” Lexa drops the animal to the ground at her feet, sitting beside it and reaching for her knife to begin removing its pelt. She scrutinizes the animal in her hands and then looks to Clarke. “You do not favor Natblida.”

Clarke releases a heavy sigh, struggling to cut through the fabric around her knee without moving her injured leg. “Medically, I’m sort of fascinated, actually. I just don’t agree with the whole glorification of a certain subset of people based on physical traits. Or, based on anything, really. That kind of system tends to promote inequality, you know?”

“No life outranks another.”

“Yeah. But, that’s not really true, is it? You’re assigned a value by virtue of your black blood that outranks any other Trikru with common blood. That outranks _everyone_ , myself included.”

Irked by Clarke’s cavalier reduction of her identity, Lexa finds herself treading into unwise territory. “Surely the opinions you hold do not apply to _all_ Natblida.”

“The yongons probably haven’t been ruined by inflated self-importance yet,” Clarke shrugs, returning her attention to her task.

“I was not referring to Maia and Zara,” Lexa answers darkly, a creeping, unexplained tension filling her chest and stomach.

Clarke balks as she picks up the thread of Lexa’s snide insinuations, her mouth dropping open slightly as she pauses in her task. “If you’re talking about my friendship with Luna—I enjoy her company precisely _because_ she lacks the arrogance about her heritage so common among other Nightbloods.”

“I can assure you that my _arrogance_ , as you say, is well-matched by Luna’s.”

“What does Luna have to do with your argument anyway?” Clarke challenges.

Lexa must return her attention to the rabbit between her feet to mask her mistake in making Luna a part of the conversation at all. “Luna is Natblida,” she begins evenly. “And, you must understand the responsibilities expected of us. Natblida are given tools to lead—to defend and protect an entire people as Heda. We seek balance for all, Clarke, not the benefit of a few. The survival of her people is Heda’s greatest honor.”

Lexa does not know why she tries to shed light on Clarke’s misconceptions when all she does is roll her eyes.

“Do you _ever_ have anything original to say? Any real thoughts of your own? Or do you honestly just spend your entire life regurgitating the ideologies of others?”

Lexa’s jaw tenses before she rolls out the tension. So much for civility. Clarke is back to her insufferable retorts, and Lexa feels a quiet anger surging at having her intellect challenged, her beliefs insulted.

She returns her attention to the kill, engaging with Clarke despite her better judgement. “Yet again your misunderstandings of our teachings have allowed you to draw incomplete and incorrect conclusions about the Trigeda way of life.”

“ _Incomplete_? You won’t even allow yourself to question the basic, biological differences between your blood and mine.”

“These curiosities are not well-placed.”

Clarke pins her with a look. “Inquiry is the basis for knowledge,” she recites with no small amount of self satisfaction. “Or are your teachings only relevant when used to serve your own purposes?”

“Of course not.” Lexa breathes out long and slow. “I think you will become a great healer, Clarke, and careful inquiry is as important in your training as it is in mine. But, you waste your time on inquiry that is without merit.”

“You don’t know that it is! Honestly, what would happen if you let yourself broaden your scope of understanding beyond what you already believe to be true?”

“What would happen if you did the same?” Lexa asks, her tone softer now as if she has already expended too much energy. Clarke, too, seems to settle at the proposition.

It seems to go this way with Clarke—round and round, getting nowhere. Eventually, Clarke tips her head against the wall of ribbed steel at her back, briefly letting her eyes fall closed. “I’m tired. And I’m sore and really, fucking hungry. Can we not talk about this?”

Lexa feels an unresolved tension along her spine, as if they have left too many things unsaid. With Clarke, it seems, there is always more to say. She keeps her voice clipped and removed when she answers, “We do not need to speak at all.” They work quietly to the sounds of night birds and a crackling fire as a stifling pressure hangs in the warm air around them.

:::

Lexa cleans and cooks the meat, and they eat in silence, splitting the rabbit and a handful of sweet red berries. With the fire now low to the ground, she props herself against the opposite wall of their shelter to create a wide berth between them. If nothing else, she has learned there are no gains to be had by engaging with Clarke—a girl so full of her own opinions that she is incapable of well-mannered conversation.

Lexa watches the light flicker against the interior, dancing shadows on rusted steel. She wholly intends to keep her gaze from falling to Clarke, though her eyes betray her again and again. Clarke has removed the bloodied shirt which bound her injury and now cleans the wound with water that Lexa brought from the nearby river, biting down on her lip to keep from showing any signs of pain. It reminds Lexa that there had been another finding from her hunt, still tucked away into a pocket. She stands to her feet, approaching Clarke by half the distance and removes a cluster of small, white flowers to place them beside Clarke’s foot.

“For your ledon.”

Clarke picks up the bundle then looks up to meet Lexa’s gaze. “Yarrow?” Lexa nods once and for a breath Clarke looks almost grateful before her expression drops. “I can’t—I mean, I don’t have any way to grind the leaves.”

Lexa hesitates, her jaw tensing—the likelihood of enduring a peaceful interaction with Clarke is never promising. Still, she does not wish for her to be in pain. Lexa sits, reaching out her hand to request the flowering plants. Clarke sets them in her palm, surprisingly quiet and cooperative. Lexa methodically prunes at least three or four stalks of their leaves, setting the rest aside. She gathers the leaves into her palm, pinching at least half of them between her fingers before placing them into her mouth. She chews silently as she reaches for more stalks to begin plucking more leaves. She removes the small, white petals too, making a separate pile beside the leaves. She does not look up to catch the way Clarke’s mouth has dropped gently open but enjoys the distinct satisfaction of having stunned her into silence.      

After a few moments, Lexa removes the crushed leaves from between her teeth, pausing with her hand near Clarke’s knee. “What are you—” Clarke starts, jerking her leg away, and Lexa finally looks up to meet her eye.

“This will aid the healing. Less effective, perhaps, than your practiced methods with Nyko, but it will still dull the pain.” Lexa swallows and steels herself for Clarke’s response. “Do you trust me?”

Clarke provides no answer, weighing Lexa’s words with a calculating gaze. She lowers her knee again after a long moment, silently angling her leg in Lexa’s direction. It is answer enough. Lexa slowly releases a held breath, maintaining her practiced composure. She starts to apply the moist, ground leaves to Clarke’s broken skin, operating under the knowledge that if nothing else, there is at least trust between them.

She repeats the process three times before Clarke’s soft inquiry breaks into their shared quiet. “Why are you being nice to me?”

_There is no power in brutality, but through compassion one breeds strength._

The response is on her tongue like reflex. Given Clarke’s previous reactions to Natblida proverbs, however, Lexa presses her lips together and rethinks her response. “I am taught many things, not least of which is empathy.”

“Even for people you hate?”

Lexa’s head snaps up at that, a frown deepening the furrow in her brow. “I do not hate you, Clarke.”

“Oso nou laik lukots.” The hurt in Clarke’s eyes does not lessen their color, and Lexa blinks.

A succession of realizations click into place, and she lets out a long sigh. It is why Clarke has repeatedly  refused her help and why she has shown Lexa such disfavor. Clarke has been carrying a pain for many seasons. A pain which Lexa herself inflicted. “Sadgeda fou.”

“It’s fine. It doesn’t matter. It was a long time ago,” Clarke is quick to deflect, eyes now cast into the dark corner of the boxcar. “And, you were right: we’re not friends.”

“It is true that we are not friends, Clarke,” Lexa begins gently, still applying a thick layer of the yarrow leaves to Clarke’s wound. “Though not out of spite as you presume. I was angry in the moment, but I have not been carrying that anger.”

“Fine. Whatever.” Clarke’s relief cannot be entirely masked by her flippancy.

“Natblida are not afforded much time to create bonds that extend beyond our brothers and sisters.”

“Luna didn’t seem to have any trouble,” Clarke fires back, though not harshly. Lexa looks up to see her brow raised before she avoids Clarke’s eye again, tightening her jaw. “Besides, you do have friends outside the Nightbloods— _Octavia_ ,” Clarke says with no small measure of disgust. “And Anya.”

Lexa avoids a prolonged explanation of why those two relationships are particularly significant and focuses on what Clarke is not saying. “I did not realize you desired friendship with me.”

Clarke stutters at this, and Lexa delights in having momentarily broken her sling of retorts almost as much as she enjoys the tinged color on her cheeks. “I … I don’t.” The light of the fire is low, but Lexa’s keen eyes still detect a crawling blush.

Adopting a response from Clarke’s vernacular, Lexa returns her attention to the yarrow, unbothered. “Okay.”

“Well, what about you? Are you trying to be friends with me now? Is that why you followed me?”

Lexa looks up sharply. “I did not—” but Clarke’s probing gaze and arms folded across her stomach have Lexa biting back the lie. She swallows, hands mindlessly fiddling a stalk that has already been pruned of its leaves and petals. She searches aimlessly for a response, finally stumbling uncharacteristically over her words. “I could not … I would not know how to be friends with you.”

Clarke laughs, incredulous. “Yeah, that much was apparent when you stealth tackled me to the ground. You send a lot of mixed signals, do you know that?”

It seems Clarke is already back on the attack, her tone sharp and certain, though not entirely unkind. Lexa contains another long-suffering sigh building within her lungs. “I do not understand this turn of phrase.”

“What I mean is, we go _years_ without ever speaking, yet you come into the healing ward that night fuming and rude to me for no reason.”

“I was in a fair amount of pain,” Lexa defends. “It was not—”

“Then, I manage to get you to relax for, like, ten seconds of your life.” Clarke never stops, barreling onward, and for once Lexa is stunned. Rarely before has she been talked over with such disregard. “Only to have you bite my head off the next day when I tried to keep you from getting your ribs kicked into a million pieces. And now,” Clarke continues, finding the stride in her mounting rant. “Now after another year of complete cold-shoulder silence, you attack me in the middle of the woods, scaring the _shit_ out of me—spend half the day insulting my intelligence and the other half taking care of me. So, what the hell, Lexa?”

There are still at least one or two things in Clarke’s diatribe that do not fully translate, but Lexa grasps onto the one thing that resonates. “I did not intend to scare you, Clarke. I only meant to keep you safe.”

“I never asked you to do that!”

Difficult as it is, Lexa maintains eye contact and swallows again, remembering with clarity the urgency with which Clarke had leapt into the training ring and halted her match so many seasons ago. “Nor did I you.”

The retaliation dies in Clarke’s throat, her mouth left open and gaping. They share another beat of silence before Clarke looks away, her gaze landing on Lexa’s hand which she had not meant to leave resting on Clarke’s leg. Lexa draws it away quickly, reaching for more stalks of yarrow as her cheeks burn.

After a moment, Clarke points to her knee. “This feels better, by the way.” Her voice rasps, a worn scratch that runs up Lexa’s spine. “Where did you learn to do that? Chewing the leaves like that?”

Lexa pauses, adjusting again to this new rhythm of exchanges. Conversations with Clarke often make her feel as if she cannot find sure footing on solid ground. “Natblida spend much time among the tris, learning the purpose of each living thing. We are trained to fight, but we must also know ways to heal.” She takes a breath and thinks about how nice it might be to talk with Clarke without agenda. What might it be like to talk with Clarke as if they _were_ friends, even if they are not. “I was once struck with an arrow in my side.”

“Oh my god.”

At the sound of Clarke’s horror, Lexa thinks about smiling but does not. “We were at least a day outside of TonDC when we fell under attack during a scouting exercise.”

“Jesus—how old were you?”

“I was not yet ten winters. Anya removed the arrow and tended to the wound with yarrow, using this same technique. I was quite fortunate not to have been poisoned.”

“I wouldn’t call getting shot with an arrow when you’re nine _fortunate_ , but um, yeah. Well done, Anya.”      

“Attacks were far more common back then. Death lurked in bright sunlight for both young and old. We lacked much of the safety you have known since arriving in TonDC. Heda’s alliance has brought considerable peace, though there is still much to be done.”     

“She’s so young though—plenty of time for her to accomplish more good for the people here. Wells says she’s one of the strongest and most effective Commanders in recent history,” Clarke offers.

Clarke is not wrong. Heda will have survived nineteen winters in a short time. It is good to know that her legacy will be that of strength and resilience, despite what limitations Lexa knows Heda will soon face. She nods in agreement, dragging slow circles with a stalk of yarrow into pockets of dirt that have gathered on the steel floor.

_Death is not a battle to be fought._

“You should rest,” Lexa tells her, feeling suddenly morose as her thoughts invariably return to her teachings. “I will keep watch.”

“I thought you said we were safe within Trigeda lands.”

“Pauna and other predators of the forest do not often adhere to the same treaties recognized by our allies.”

“Oh. Right,” Clarke says, pressing her lips together while she looks about for a desirable place to lie down. She does not meet Lexa’s eye when she speaks. “Listen, for what it’s worth—I’m sorry for ruining that fight for you last year. During Sadgeda fou, I mean. I thought … I just wanted to help, but I guess there’s a lot I still don’t completely understand.”

“Are you saying there are limits to the breadth of your knowledge?” Lexa’s brow arches above one eye, her mouth threatening a smug tilt.

Eyes narrowed but fighting a grin of her own, Clarke scoffs. “I’m sorry, are you insinuating that _I’m_ the insufferable know-it-all here?”

“I did not say insufferable.”

Clarke laughs, not at all without humor. An actual laugh. It is bright and open and entirely lovely. It sets something alight within Lexa’s chest that spreads a fluttering warmth into her stomach.

She stands slowly, brushing remnants of stems and petals from her lap in search of composure. “Your concern for my safety was honorable, though I failed to express it at the time. I am not proud of how I reacted.”

Clarke lifts a tired shoulder and exhales. “It’s okay.”

“I will sit outside to keep watch, closer to the fire. You will be fine to sleep here?”

Clarke’s gaze flits around the interior as she taps her knuckles against the side of the metal boxcar producing a low, muted clang. “I’m good. Kind of reminds me of home, actually.”

“The Ark?”

“Yeah. Usually smelled better up there though,” she says, wrinkling her nose.

Upon their arrival, Lexa had assessed the structure’s interior to be sure they would not be taking up lodging in another creature’s home. She found no signs of other life, though the dark, damp boxcar does retain a pungency trapped within its walls as well as the remnants of whatever has lived there in the past. She looks towards the shadowy depths of the structure then out to the starry night sky.

“Would you prefer to sleep outside?”

“No, I’ll be fine. I don’t feel like moving right now anyway.”

Lexa nods, stepping fully outside onto softer ground. “Sleep well, Clarke.”

“Okay. Try not to get hit with any arrows,” Clarke says with a grin.

Lexa does not quite manage to turn away before a smile takes over her face. She walks around the fire until the smile eventually fades, stretching her legs and letting the nocturnal sounds reverberate in her ears. She sits in the cool grass and tilts her head to the sky—even with the mild light pollution from the dying fire, it is bursting with countless stars. She thinks absently of a friendship with Clarke in which she might someday ask her what it was like to soar between them.

“Hey, Lexa?”

She sits up, leaning towards the opening of the dimly lit shelter, though Clarke is hardly visible where she already lies prone against one side. “Are you alright, Clarke?”

“Yeah, um. I’m good. I just wanted to say thank you. For, you know, helping with my leg and … trying to keep me safe.”  

Lexa holds her breath, remembering the sensation of being under water—the muffled pressure of it coursing over her ears, making her body weightless. It feels like this now as the silence stretches and the insects sing and the fire burns and Clarke waits for her response. Lexa clings to the grass between her fingers, thinking of all the things she would like to say to her in response. All of the things she likely should not say. Friendship with Clarke, if at all possible, will be no easy task.  

She steadies her voice and clears her throat. “Mochof, Clarke. I am thankful to you as well.”

:::

Lexa’s eyes drift shut at random intervals, though her heightened senses never allow for a deep sleep. She remains alert throughout the night, if not restful. Her eyes open fully just before first light, blinking as she adjusts to her surroundings, and she stands to slowly stretch her limbs. The ground here beside the tracks is not as soft as the forest floor, and her muscles ache from a prolonged stillness. Lexa moves about the smoking embers of the fire, treading near the mouth of the boxcar without imposing on Clarke’s space.

She sleeps soundly, head propped against her canvas bag and injured leg slightly elevated atop a low ledge of the steel structure. Lexa watches the rise and fall of Clarke’s stomach and her small frowning mouth for a breath longer than she should. When the first of the morning doves begin to sing, she noiselessly leaves their camp, headed for the nearby river.

The sky above is a greying light when she returns with a string of fish, a broad leaf filled with more berries, and Clarke’s bloodied overshirt which she has rinsed and wrung to dry. Clarke sits by an already rekindled fire. A coursing energy suddenly runs through Lexa’s veins as she approaches, similar to the nerves which precede a good fight. Clarke has not yet seen her, and Lexa anticipates her gaze with excitement, trepidation. She breathes evenly to temper an erratic pulse, but then Clarke looks up and Lexa’s calming efforts swiftly fail.

Lexa exhales. “Hei.”

Clarke doesn’t quite smile before dropping her head again, seeming to contemplate the ground at her feet with curiosity. Lexa cannot see what has snared her attention until she is standing above her.

She stops short as Clarke looks up. “You kept them.”

Littering the ground around the fire are pages from Clarke’s bound book, which Lexa had carefully removed after Clarke had gone to bed the night before. She had arranged them to dry as best she could, hoping Clarke could avoid a complete loss of her work. The pages had been full of drawings—beautifully precise renderings of the plant and animal life surrounding TonDC, even as most of them bled from the pages. A system of record-keeping that looks more like a fine piece of art. Even in the low light of a dying fire, Lexa had been moved to try and preserve the drawings for how much she admired them.

“I did not know if the writing had entirely lost its value, but the drawings—you are very talented, Clarke.” Lexa’s heart accelerates despite her measured tone. She had not planned to reveal the gesture to Clarke in this way. In the past several hours she has not planned for much; it is an odd but thrilling sensation of coming unmoored.

“They’re just sloppy sketches,” Clarke says, albeit fighting a smile and looking back towards her feet. “I don’t know if they’re worth keeping—I mean, I don’t know if any of my notes are still legible, but,” she meets Lexa’s gaze and smiles more fully. “Thank you.”

“It seemed of importance to you.”

Clarke’s gaze lingers, warming blue tones that have Lexa shifting on her feet. “It is.”

Clarke’s gratitude, soft and scratched, has an effect more pronounced than any Lexa has ever experienced—she beams a genuine smile that, for once, she does not attempt to hide. Curbing it only enough to respond, “You are welcome.”

When a pleasant silence stretches, it is Clarke who finally breaks it with a nod towards Lexa’s dangling string of fish. “Breakfast?”

“Yes.” Lexa jumps into motion, remembering her intended plan to cook something quickly and make the most of the morning’s early light and cooler temperatures. “We should make our way soon, once we have eaten. The distance is not far, but I cannot predict how your injury will affect the length of our journey. I can imagine it will not be easy. Or painless,” she adds carefully, already working with the fish.     

“It feels better already, actually. I’m hoping my mom won’t have to administer stitches, but I’m going to reapply the yarrow leaves before we start walking.”

Lexa’s gaze flicks up to catch Clarke’s eye. “I am hopeful for your quick recovery.”

Clarke does not respond, biting at her lip to curb a growing smile. Lexa, in turn, must return her attention to the fish to avoid slicing through her fingers. She works her hand in short, quick motions with the blunt edge of her knife to remove its scales before moving onto the next.

:::

“So,” Clarke says, finishing a bite of fish and reaching for the waterskin between them. “Are you going to stop talking to me again once we get back?” She drinks, her taunting smile apparent even despite the waterskin against her mouth, and Lexa looks away when her face warms.

They sit on the same side of a dying fire, angled with some distance between them but still closer than Lexa would sit beside Octavia. Clarke has wrapped her somewhat clean shirt around her leg again, compressing fresh yarrow leaves to the wound, and seems to be in better spirits. Lexa pokes at the grey ash of their fire with a stick, contemplating her answer until Clarke’s boot unexpectedly knocks against her own.

Lexa looks over in surprise to see Clarke’s eyebrows raised, an expectant smirk curving her mouth. Lexa finally responds with a quiet, “No.” She takes a steadying breath. “I think that I would like—I would enjoy talking with you more often, if possible.” Her eyes linger there, on that smirk, until it slowly vanishes.

“Good,” Clarke says, but it is more of a whisper.

It is surely Clarke who leans into their shared space because Lexa will swear on the hallowed legacy of Heda that her limbs have fossilized, turned quickly to stone. It must then be Clarke who presses gently against her, finding her hand on the ground between them and squeezing her fingers. Lexa, meanwhile, is paralyzed in a kind fear she has never known. She cannot move, cannot think, cannot breathe until Clarke’s lips meet hers in a soft and timid pressure. The touch is gone in a breath, and Clarke is pulling back to a safer distance. Her wide, blue eyes dart across Lexa’s face, searching for answers that Lexa does not have.

Words of any language escape her completely and she licks her lips, eyes falling again to Clarke’s mouth. It is perhaps the only answer for which Clarke was looking as she begins to tilt again in Lexa’s direction. This time Lexa does not allow her to close the entire gap between them, meeting her lips halfway. Clarke sighs against her mouth and Lexa soars.

Lexa is Trigeda; she is Natblida. She is a skilled fighter and fearless negotiator—a survivor with sharp intellect who will someday become a great and powerful leader for her people. Most days, for as long as she can remember, she is all of these things. In this early dawn of a late summer morning, Lexa feels like a girl who is entranced by kissing Clarke Griffin and nothing more.

The blare of the gonakru horn is the end of everything Lexa has known and the beginning of everything for which she has been taught. The moment between her and Clarke breaks at the sound, and Lexa pulls back with a jolt. They are not in danger, but they have been found—ripped from a secluded moment in which she and Clarke could have been the only two people on the ground. There are only a handful of seconds in which she and Clarke stare in matching wonderment, breaths rapid and eyes colored in disbelief. Several warriors on horseback approach their small encampment, and Lexa rises to her full height to greet them. Clarke struggles to stand as well until Lexa reaches down, offering her hand and helping Clarke to her feet.

“A search party?” Clarke groans, her fingers slow to release from Lexa’s hold. “Shit, we’re in so much trouble.”

Face flushed and nerves bouncing, Lexa fights another smile at Clarke’s candid remark. “Sha,” she agrees with a heavy sigh as her First stalks angrily towards them, stone-faced and eyes like steel. Anya’s gaze never falters from Lexa’s as she closes the distance between them with purposed steps. “It would appear so.”

Lexa takes a step forward, placing her hands behind her back to fortify herself for Anya’s scathing rebuke. Even as Anya stops directly in front of her, a lashing from her First never comes. Her penetrating gaze instead slides to Clarke stood just over Lexa’s right shoulder.

“Gustus,” Anya barks, and a giant gona dismounts his horse to approach them. He is part of a concentrated faction of gonakru, who have watched over the TonDC Natblida since Lexa was very small. “Take gada op with you. Lexa will ride with me.”

“She is injured,” Lexa interjects, worrying again for Clarke’s safety despite knowing of Gustus’s gentle care from years of her own breaks and bruises. “I will—”

“You will do as I say,” Anya snaps. The severity of her tone is like nothing Lexa has ever experienced. “This is no time for abject chivalry.”

Lexa’s fists clench behind her back as Gustus offers a hand to Clarke. Even his gruff voice has taken a gentle tone as he asks, “Your leg is hurt?”

“Yes,” Clarke answers. “I fell crossing klinrona.”

“Kom op,” Gustus encourages, leading her towards his massive steed.

Beyond Anya’s steady glower, Lexa watches Gustus lift Clarke onto his horse’s saddle. She winces at the effort to move her leg into a comfortable position, and Lexa wonders if she will avoid the stitching of her ledon after all. Clarke catches her eye as Gustus mounts, settling into the leather saddle behind her and dwarfing Clarke completely.

“I’ll see you at home.” It is not a question, but Lexa can hear the uncertainty in Clarke’s brittle tone.

Lexa swallows, nodding once. She will certainly find Clarke upon her arrival into TonDC assuming Anya does not have Lexa drowned in the river during their journey. The way her glare flashes darkly as Lexa’s focus returns to her does not bode in her favor. Gustus clicks his teeth and the steed spins towards the forest, the other gona flanking Gustus until they disappear into the trees.

“Anya,” Lexa begins calmly, reining in her confidence in the face of her First’s unmasked anger.

“Heda stedaun.”

Two words, and Lexa’s entire world tilts sideways. Though her face remains impassive, Anya keeps quiet for several beats, allowing the news to settle over her. Eventually, Lexa finds her voice. “How?”

“An attack on Bow. Slithering, spineless Azgeda disguised as Ouskejon Kru took the Commander’s life under the cover of night.”

Lexa’s spine straightens with a jolt, her stomach feeling hollow. Blue Cliff—just as the three presumed travelers she and Clarke had nearly encountered outside Trigeda borders. Bow is a smaller settlement not far from TonDC and halfway to Polis. Lexa wonders if Heda had been on her way from the capital to TonDC—a familiar, well-traveled route and one easy to intercept. It would be impossible for the hunting party to have reached Bow in time to slay the Commander, but that doesn’t mean something dangerous and vile is not encroaching on her alliance. The timing is too closely linked to have been coincidental.

“Sadgeda stot au,” Lexa says.

Anya nods. The Conclave must begin. “We leave for Polis immediately.”

:::

Lexa gathers up Clarke’s drawings, carefully placing them back inside the hardbound covering of her book. Anya stomps out the remainder of the cooling embers and says nothing. They retreat into the woods by several paces before Anya’s brown-and-white spotted mare is in their line of sight, and Anya says nothing. Lexa tucks the small booklet into a bag that hangs from the saddle before swinging her leg over the back of the horse. Anya watches her with a practiced eye before slipping into the seat behind her, and still she says nothing. They ride for a long, quiet stretch—the horse moving at a brisk pace that is not quite a trot as they maneuver the forest floor. Lexa’s mind reels with her impending future: Sadgeda, Polis, gyonplei. Ascension to Heda is not a guarantee for her, but Lexa has always sensed its preordinance. And then, without preface, Anya finally speaks.

“Skai gada’s nomon will have something to say about luring her daughter into a wood for the night, no?”

For once, Lexa is glad to have Anya at her back so as not to reveal the way her face warms and reddens. She steadies her voice before responding. “Clarke was lured by no one, I assure you.”     

“A contender for the highest honor among our people, and you fall prey to your childish curiosities,” Anya chides lightly. “She is a distraction, Lexa.”

Clarke is so much more than a common distraction, though Lexa does not expound on this for Anya’s sake. Best not to give her First more fuel for her anger. Lexa instead fights against reliving every second of contact they’d shared. She resists an urge to close her eyes, remembering the soft give of Clarke’s lips as they slid across her own. Lexa exhales a long breath from her nose, pressing her lips firmly together to stop them from tingling.  

“She will not be a distraction in Polis,” she promises, voice strong and sure even as her nerves balance precariously on a razor’s edge. She is not confident, even after a handful of hours together, that distance will lessen the effects of Clarke kom Skaikru.

As the ground flattens out and the borders of TonDC come into view, Anya clicks her tongue and the mare begins to move at a canter. “Perhaps during our journey to the capital you will have convinced yourself of this lie.”

:::

She absolutely should not follow through with the impulse, but she does.

She finds Clarke in the healers’ ward as the sun sets. Nyko spares her a cursory glance as she enters but otherwise says nothing before making his exit. Clarke looks up as Lexa approaches, and the resolve she had built around herself like a shield already feels inadequate. She clutches the bound book of drawings with nervous hands, which she holds behind her back.

“Hey,” Clarke says. The room is warm and still and her voice somehow sounds very different inside the confines of the healing house.

Clarke’s left knee has been cleaned and wrapped in new bandages, elevated by soft blankets. It keeps Lexa’s focus as she stops beside the bed and clears her throat. “Has it been stitched?”

Clarke hums, sounding tired. “Yeah, my mom didn’t want to risk infection. She finished closing it up a few hours ago.” There is a pause and then her voice changes again. “When do you leave?”

Lexa is already dressed in light armor—protections she might wear while sparring with Anya.  

“Now,” Lexa answers, her eyes finally dragging from Clarke’s bandaged knee to her face. “There is a retinue prepared for departure at dusk. We must travel with additional gonakru due to the proximity of the attack. Titus thinks it better to make our way in the dark.”

“Nyko told me the news,” Clarke supplies, though it is unsurprising that she would know. “I still can’t believe it.”

The entire city has been bustling with uncertainty upon discovering Heda’s death. Lexa has seen it on the faces of every person she has passed on the streets—nervous, expectant. Looking to her as if she can assuage their fears. Lexa nods once in lieu of a proper response. She did not come prepared for a conversation, and she feels emptied of words. An uncomfortable silence hangs between them until Lexa remembers her purpose.  

“I wanted to be sure these were not lost.” She presents the book to Clarke whose fingertips brush her own during the exchange. Lexa returns her hands behind her back, squeezing them into fists.

“Twice you’ve rescued them now,” Clarke says lightly, though something dark still shadows her expression. “Chof.”

Again, Lexa offers a curt nod. She swallows roughly, preparing to make a swift exit now that she has done what she came to do. There is no sense in prolonging the inevitable, and Lexa has already stayed too long. She opens her mouth to say as much when Clarke speaks.

“You’re going to be Heda when I see you next, aren’t you?”

Despite her nerves, despite the peril she could face on the journey to Polis, despite the gravity of Sadgeda and Ascension, Lexa’s mouth twitches upwards. “Your confidence in my abilities is appreciated.”

“Well, I’ve seen you fight and win against kids twice your size,” Clarke shrugs. “And, there’s apparently _nothing_ beyond your realm of intellectual expertise.”

Lexa presses her lips together and looks away in an effort to keep her smile from growing. Ineffectual and unsuccessful. “I am hopeful for Gyonplei as well, Clarke.”   

“You’ll literally do _anything_ to not have to be friends with me, won’t you?” Clarke’s face is brighter now, a teasing smile on her lips which Lexa ardently avoids being drawn into.

She does not give into Clarke’s mouth a second time, but she does relax into her own subtle amusement. Her smile is small and concise, but she revels in this shared moment as it will likely be the last of its kind for quite some time. Not only with Clarke, but with anyone. “If I prevail in Sadgeda and take on the honor of Heda’s mantle, I will serve these people well as their Commander.”

Clarke’s smile softens into something more sincere. “I know you will.”

She must go. She should not have come. There is much within the past day that Lexa should not have done; yet she cannot find regret within her.

Lexa does not recognize the fragile timbre of her own voice. “I have to go.”

“Okay, don’t think this is weird, but—” Clarke shifts on the bed where she has been propped into a sitting position and extends her right arm towards Lexa. “The people on the Ark, we had a saying. A kind of farewell, I guess.” Lexa watches her proffered hand with trepidation until Clarke laughs and extends it further into Lexa’s space. “You have to take my arm. Like this.”

With her other hand she roughly grabs for Lexa’s arm, dislodging her clasped hands from behind her back. Lexa might be appalled at being handled this way by anyone other than Anya had she not just spent the past day in Clarke’s company. Clarke’s hand wraps around her forearm near her elbow, and then she looks up, waiting for Lexa to do the same. Her fingers slowly close around Clarke’s arm, eyes hesitant to meet her gaze.

“May we meet again.” Clarke softly clears her throat then says, “Now you.”

“May we meet again,” Lexa repeats.

Clarke pauses, their arms still linked as curious eyes search her face. “Will you say it in Trigedasleng?”

Lexa complies, her grip tightening by a fraction as the words softly leave her mouth. “Mebi oso na hit choda op nodotaim.”

“Nodotaim,” Clarke echoes, a distinct waver to her voice despite a hopeful smile. Lexa thinks that it is, after all, not so bad a word.

:::

 

       

 

      

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Formal invite to stop by my ask box @mopeytropey to chat about how Lexa is an absolutely useless gay disaster.


	3. Jus-de na buk au omon trei

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s been ages, and still, the subtle click of her name in Lexa’s soft cadence slices through her like a blade.

**_Autumn_ **

****She doesn’t speak with Lexa for almost another full year. It seems to be their pattern.

“She’ll want to see you, no?”     

Clarke stands knee-deep in the warm, clear blue shallows where she forages plant life for medicinal tinctures, and small, darting fish for nutritional oils. The tides are not strong on the bayside of their cape, and the waters maintain their warmth even as autumn encroaches. Luna doesn’t work with the healers who train Clarke, though she occasionally tags along on the days that Clarke spends gathering at the water. Her reflexes are jaw-droppingly sharp, and Clarke watches her pinch the tail of a small, purple fish between her fingertips as it darts past her ankles. It’s impressive as hell, though in order to sustain their glib dynamic, Clarke remains wholly unimpressed as Luna dangles her catch above the water and smiles broadly in Clarke’s direction. 

Clarke scowls lightly, “Why would she want to see me?”

Luna studies her with an amused suspicion before letting Clarke off the hook with a shrug, tossing the fish back into the water. “No reason.”

It’s been rumored that Lexa wasted no time as Heda in traveling to each territory held by the four existing clans in her inherited alliance as well as those most likely to join. She seeks expansion of the current alliance between Trikru, Podakru, Trishanakru, and Shallow Valley, which Lexa has begun calling the Coalition. She’s already seen some early success with Broad Leaf and the Desert Clan. There’s talk of her creating alliances between all of the known clans, twelve in all, which is what brings her here.

The new Heda, it seems, has an immediate agenda. Lexa has _always_ had an agenda.

“She’s here to promote the Coalition, which has nothing to do with me.” Clarke steps out of the water, setting small wooden buckets of her collected findings, netting, and other instruments onto the sandy shore. She dries her hands on her pants, turning back towards Luna. “She’ll want to see you, if anyone.”

“She won’t bother.” Luna follows Clarke out of the water, collapsing onto the beach. “Lexa knows I will never support any alliance driven by incessant bloodshed. Her vision of unity may be progressive, but her implementation is still dragged under by violent tradition.”

Clarke fully supports the notion of Lexa’s proposed Coalition and its promise to bring prosperity by continued expansion among other clans. More people at peace sounds great—opening trade routes, extending travel between territories, broadening communities. Lexa obviously wishes to bring a sense of stability to a people who have known too much war. If these alliances were to grow through peaceful talks and mutual agreements, Clarke would have little to argue.

“She hasn’t even completed her first year as Commander—maybe she’ll sort out a way to avoid more senseless wars,” Clarke says, still maintaining hope for Lexa’s new leadership.

She continues to tout peace—as her predecessors and the Elders who mentor them always have—but she does so under the banner of war. The clans align under an agreement to lay siege to the North, attacking Azgedakru and bringing them to heel. Clarke has a hard time supporting violence to preempt more violence. Starting wars to end wars was the plight of Before, and look how well that turned out.

“Perhaps you can suggest this to Lexa when she comes to see you,” Luna taunts, smiling in Clarke’s direction as she squints into the late afternoon sun.

Clarke scowls at her without much intent. It wasn’t hard, falling into a rhythm with Luna here on the Cape—they had already discovered a compatibility in TonDC that has only grown since moving away from the rigidity of the city. Here they are free to be people outside the confines of their prescribed identities: Natblida and Skaikru fisa. Luna is cocksure and carefree, and Clarke has been easily charmed.

“Let’s head back, I’m starving,” Clarke says.

She expels a long breath then inhales the salty sea air. She remains confident that the new Heda will not seek her out, but nevertheless her stomach flutters at the prospect. Talk of Lexa and politics and the developing world around them always puts her on edge. She doesn’t want to think about their newest Commander and the wars she wages. She doesn’t want to think of how she puts her life at risk for the sake of her agenda. She doesn’t want to think about the look on her face when she saw her last. Clarke’s life is easier when she doesn’t think of her at all, really. She just wants to enjoy the fading warmth of late summer and the incredible view before her.

Topeke Cape is small and communal. A fishing village within Floukru territory, it sits at the tip of Teague Island which is bordered on one side by The Great Bay and the expanse of the Atlantic ocean on the other. They are a fair distance from larger cities like TonDC and Polis but no more than a day’s travel by boat. Clarke had always admired the water from above—big, swirling blue masses that she never could have imagined would take her breath away to stand at their edges. From her perspective on the Ark, the oceans were impressive but finite. Down here, they are impossibly endless.

“You are cooking for me, no?” Luna asks, hopping to her feet and brushing off her hands.

“Not a chance—some of us have been working hard all day while you lounge about. You’re definitely cooking for _me._ ” Clarke reaches for her supplies, throwing the damp netting over a shoulder. Her clothing is still light at this time of year: tank tops and loose shirts and and thin pants of soft fabric. It stays much warmer in this region than it ever had in TonDC, and Clarke plans to soak up the sunshine for as long as she can. “Anyway, you don’t even like my cooking.”

Luna slides a hand around Clarke’s waist and grabs lightly at the soft skin at her side. “I like other things about you.”

“Three days away at sea and you’re getting handsy in public now?” Clarke laughs, swatting Luna’s hand away and reaching now for her buckets.

Luna builds boats with her Floukru relatives and navigates their waters around the coasts of Teague Island—scouting for threats, for trade. Clarke works in the healing house, advancing her education and nurturing her craft. They come and go as they please, falling into bed together or spending nights apart. Things with Luna are light, and easy, and fun. Not yet eighteen and completely on her own for the first time, she can’t really complain about the favorable outcome. It’s a good life; and Clarke is happy.

“I’ve got them,” Luna smiles and reaches for the buckets, knowing that Clarke finds chivalry to be as obnoxious as the local warriors who have tried it on with her.

Clarke had quickly fallen prey to Luna’s mischievous grin, her beautiful eyes and playful touch once they’d settled on the Cape. Many months later, and they maintain a blissfully casual relationship. She rolls her eyes at the gesture but doesn’t stop Luna from taking them, gathering the rest of her tools instead.

:::

“Hei, Clarke.” Lincoln’s warm smile greets her as she enters the healing house.

“Morning,” she smiles back, setting her bag beside him on the ground before taking a seat at his right side.

Luna’s younger brother by less than two years, Lincoln is the kind, gentle, Floukru equivalent to Wells. Naturally, he and Clarke had fallen into a fast friendship, solidified even further by their mutual love of medicine. He is not Natblida though he and Luna share the same parents. The mysterious intricacies of black blood continue to perplex Clarke even as she learns volumes in her advanced training program with the Floukru fisas.

It’s the morning after the Commander’s processional had descended upon their provincial fishing village, and Clarke tries not to let her mind race with thoughts about Lexa. She had passed by a collection of newly erected tents in the village center on her way to class, and that had been distraction enough.

“Any idea what we’re doing today?” Clarke asks, reaching blindly into her bag to find her sketchbook.

“Extractions from the coral we harvested yesterday,” Lincoln says. He sharpens a stick of charcoal against his knife, and Clarke thinks about asking him to do the same for hers.

Instead, something on the page of Lincoln’s sketchbook catches her eye. Her fingers toy at the page as she raises her eyebrows in his direction. “Can I see?”

“Yes. It’s not finished but—”

“Shof op, you’re so fucking talented it makes me sick.” Clarke slides the book away from Lincoln’s elbow as his face breaks into an embarrassed smile. She groans in disgust as her finger traces the intricate details of a mollusk they had dissected a few days ago, careful not to smudge Lincoln’s work. “This is so good. I can never get this much detail.”  

“Your drawings are excellent, Clarke.”

Clarke shoots him a skeptical glance. “Have you ever had anything negative to say in your entire life?”

“A perfectionist is not a reliable critic of her work.”

Lincoln’s face is so open and honest, not to mention lovely to look at, with dark, sparkling eyes that crinkle as he smiles. Clarke finds it hard to argue with virtually anything that comes out of his mouth and purses her lips instead. He didn’t grow up with Luna, and it’s perhaps why they are so vastly different, but she enjoys their company equally.

“Luna’s coming over for dinner later—you want in?”

“Are you inviting me just so that I’ll clean and cook the fish?”

“No!” Clarke scoffs even as Lincoln halts his sharpening to smile over at her. “Okay, fine. But, it tastes so much better when you do it.”

“Mochof, Clarke. I will happily be there regardless of your motivations.”

:::

Clarke rolls off the thin mattress at the sound of knocking at her door, Luna pawing after her bared legs playfully until Clarke is out of reach. She had returned home to her single-room mud hut after a morning spent training in the healing house to find Luna passed out on her bed. A late afternoon nap had turned into more, as it so often does, and Clarke is blissed out and sated as she pulls on pants and scrambles for a loose shirt. Luna regards her with a sleepy smile but otherwise doesn’t seem fussed to move. Lincoln is always punctual but rarely this early for dinner, though it’s still his face that Clarke expects to see when she pulls open the door.

“Clarke.”

It’s been ages, and still, the subtle click of her name in Lexa’s soft cadence slices through her like a blade.

“Lexa.” Clarke clears her throat, touches her hair, tugs at her clothes, employs several useless gestures to distract from her utter shock and embarrassment. “Hi.”

Gone is Lexa’s youthful arrogance, replaced now with an understated poise. Stoic and powerful in her quiet observance and commanding posture. Her jaw tenses, and Clarke stills. Lexa’s face is masked in the tradition of the Commander—dark sulfite powder dragged down her cheekbones and across her eyes. Still, Clarke looks for something familiar in their shades of piercing green. There isn’t even a flicker of recognition—Lexa’s eyes are dark and unflinching, and Clarke almost cowers to be stood in front of her feeling completely exposed.

“I have made multiple requests to have a word with Luna since my arrival. Without much success, as you might imagine.” Lexa pauses to grind her jaw, her gaze boring into Clarke’s front door. “I was told I might find her here.”

“Oh, she—” Clarke swallows roughly, running a nervous hand through unruly, bed-mussed hair.

“Hei, strisis.” Luna has wrenched the door open wide and now stands towering beside Clarke in pants and boots with untied laces, still buttoning an open shirt and wearing a taunting grin.

Clarke sees something else in Lexa’s eyes then, like a flash of fire in a hot pan. Gone too quickly for Clarke to determine if it was ever really there. Lexa’s gaze then narrows, turning further to stone, even as Luna continues to look entirely unbothered.

“You ignore my requests. You dishonor our bond by your refusal to negotiate. And you waste precious time that I do not have to lose.”

“I wasn’t ignoring you—just lost track of time,” Luna explains lightly, wrapping a length of twine around her massive head of wild curls.

Clarke refuses to meet her playful glance, but she can feel Luna’s broad smile directed at her and flushes twelve shades of red without flinching.

Lexa’s response is clipped and resolute. “I will be in my tent.”

“Great.” Luna’s hand comes to rest on Lexa’s shoulder guard, the distinguished mark of her status, and the giant guards flanking her reach for their weapons but do not otherwise advance. “I was just on my way there.”

Luna brushes past the small, overcrowded doorway, throwing a last look at Clarke over her shoulder. “Leida, Clarke. I’ll see you for dinner.” She makes her exit in long, easy strides, and then Clarke is left fumbling for words yet again.

“I’m—actually, you, um—can we—”

“I would like to speak with you as well, Clarke,” Lexa says, her eyes not quite reaching Clarke’s. “If you might find the time.”  

Clarke feels like she’s been pushed back onto her heels. “You would?”

“I have just been through TonDC. There is much for us to discuss.”

Panic flashes in her chest, and Clarke grabs onto her door frame. “Is my mom okay?”

Finally, Lexa meets her eye with some calm assurance. “She is well.”

“Good,” Clarke exhales. “When did you want to, um, talk?”

“Later. I will send for you.”

Clarke has never been sent for. She has never before been _summoned_ in an official capacity. Not since she was caught defiling Ark property by sketching murals into her school desk at the age of ten and was forced to report to the education board to apologize. At seventeen, being summoned by the leader of an entire nation, who she has lowkey made-out with feels distinctly more significant.

Her cheeks flare at the memory of that intimate morning so many months ago, and she looks away from Lexa’s steady gaze. “Okay. Sure. Sounds good.”

Lexa is gone a breath later, spinning on her heel and heading off in the direction of her tent. The small retinue of gonakru, which Clarke imagines never leave her side, lumber slowly after until Lexa is out of sight.

She closes her door again, her weight falling against it a moment later as she is left alone in the fading light and salty sea breezes of early evening. She places a hand onto her forehead and lets it fall down over her eyes before exhaling an incredulous bark of laughter. “Shit.”       

:::   

Lexa doesn’t send for her until the following day. Luna had returned to Clarke’s hut no more than an hour later, bringing Lincoln in tow. Although she’d been desperately curious, Clarke hadn’t felt comfortable asking about her meeting with Lexa in Lincoln’s company. True to his word, he prepared them a delicious meal of roasted fish and pureed root vegetables sweetened with honey. Luna had kept their cups full of wine brought back from her last trip to Polis. They talked and laughed and ate well, though Clarke’s mind refused to settle. Her thoughts drifted and raced until Lincoln and Luna made their way back to their own homes. Alone in the dark, it was no better—her thoughts plagued her endlessly and sunrise came too early.

She had dressed at first light, scrubbed her face with lukewarm water from the basin near her bed, and sat sketching in the grey light of early dawn until the knock finally came to her door.

“Heda will see you now,” a gruff, oversized guard informs her the next morning.

At this point, she is more than ready to get this conversation—whatever it is—over and done with. Clarke nods, grabs her worn canvas bag, which she is rarely seen without, and follows behind the guard down sandy paths that run through Topeke’s gathering of traditional mud huts and thick canvas tents.

More of the Commander’s guard stand posted outside the flaps of each of her three tents, but the man leading her stops outside the middle, moderate-sized one. He does not enter ahead of her but holds open his arm, indicating she should go ahead. Clarke takes one, last steadying breath and walks inside.

It’s not the scene she’d expected, and Clarke has to wonder if Lexa is in the habit of playing mind games. It lacks the trappings of a military Commander of any sort. No war tables. No additional personnel. The interior leads Clarke to believe she’s been brought to Lexa’s personal quarters—simple furniture, washbasin, discarded armor, and Lexa’s infamous swords leaned up against a chair in the corner. There isn’t a bed, but it still feels incredibly intimate. Clarke halts uneasily just inside the tent flaps, waiting for Lexa to reveal herself.

She enters off the back, far-right corner a moment later where the Commander’s tents must be linked together. “Clarke, come in.” Despite her continued stiff formality, Lexa at least looks more like her old self.

Her face has been washed clean of its decorative kohl, and she’s dressed in softer looking clothes. Not the flowing, light colored linens so common to the people of the Cape, but she at least wears less belts and buckles than Heda’s traditional uniform requires. The knife she has always worn is still clipped at her hip. There are probably others discreetly hidden, but Lexa has clearly not dressed to intimidate Clarke with her appearance, which is a relief. Clarke shuffles inward by a few paces, and then Lexa directs her towards one of the chairs. They sit across from each other with a low table between them, and Clarke’s heart is hammering so rapidly she can hardly make out the sounds of the nearby ocean.

She has purposefully avoided thinking about their last encounter for the better part of a year, but now—left in a room alone again—it blares across her conscious like a siren. There are also a hundred questions racing through her thoughts. She wants to ask about Lexa’s Ascension and how she’s enjoying Polis. She wants to know how she fared in those first few weeks as Heda when the death of her predecessor still loomed. She wants to ask about how she’s handling this heavy responsibility, how she feels when she crawls into bed at night and the weight of it all settles over her.

More than anything, she just wants to know if Lexa is okay. Clarke wonders if anyone else is asking after her. There is a brief moment between them in which Clarke searches for the tells of Lexa’s nerves, but there are none. She had once seen glimpses of a girl who fought against blushing smiles and gave way to soft touches, but sitting across from Lexa now Clarke realizes: that girl is gone.

“I bring word from your mother.” Lexa is clearly here for official Trigeda business, not to rehash some fleeting attraction or a friendship that never was.

Clarke decides to follow suit. “She’s well?”

“She is leaving TonDC for Polis and then onward, joining our ranks as we march north in the coming months.”

“Wait— _what_?” Clarke feels like she’s been punched in the windpipe.

Lexa folds her hands across her lap, looking impossibly regal and composed. “War is upon us, Clarke. Many are called to fight, but we must also have those among us who are able to heal. Your mother and Nyko are two of the best resources that we have and have agreed to help our cause. They will travel with us as invaluable fisa.”

Clarke nearly shouts. “No!”

“Clarke—”

“ _No_ , she can’t. You can’t let her do this, Lexa. For my sake, _please_ —don’t put her in danger like this,” Clarke urges, pulse racing.

She refuses to say: _I already lost my father._

“Your mother’s decisions are her own, Clarke. And, we are all in danger. You, perhaps, most of all.”   

“Why would I be in danger? We’re almost completely removed from other clans down here.”

Lexa purses her lips and looks away. “Floudonkru refuse the Coalition, which means they are without the protections it provides.” Her gaze returns to Clarke with no small amount of intensity. “If you stay here, Clarke, you risk attack that will not be defended by my combined forces.”

The Floukru are a peaceful people, and Clarke is not surprised they would refuse an alliance built on the back of war. She also doesn’t doubt that Luna played a heavy hand in the decision, which likely stings Lexa more than the clan’s ultimate refusal.

“Well, I’m not leaving. Where would I even go?”

Lexa seems to hesitate, a breath caught somewhere within her. It’s the first uncertainty Clarke has seen that’s even faintly reminiscent of the girl who left TonDC a year ago. “I had hoped you would join us as well.”

“Me? Why?”

“I have spoken with the fisa here. Your teachers tell me you are at the top of your program and a very promising healer.”

The Boat People operate a premiere training program for healers—many of whom go on to work in Polis, to attend to Heda personally. Aspiring healers from all over travel here to train within the medical program. Lexa isn’t wrong; Clarke has excelled quickly here. Still, that hardly seems relevant at the moment. She scowls as Lexa speaks, her stomach still churning at the idea of her mother running through battlefields, dodging combat, risking her life in countless, unthinkable ways. It’s all so infuriating, this notion of perpetual warfare to fight for peace that never seems to last.

She crosses her arms over her stomach, feeling a familiar surge of opposition. “You want me to come with you because I’m the best?” She raises an eyebrow challengingly. “That’s it?”

Lexa dips her head in one of those familiar, wordless nods. She never falters, and Clarke hates it. “Yes. Had I been told that Arrow is most favorable among the young fisa, I would have extended this proposition to him.”

“Arrow doesn’t know his ass from his elbow,” Clarke scoffs.   

“It is good then that I have asked you here instead.” There’s a lighter quality to Lexa’s tone that Clarke recognizes instantly, though she shows no signs of humor on her placid face.

Clarke hates that even amid her anger, she still longs to see that smile.

“I’m staying here, Lexa. I’d rather take my chances on the Cape than play party to more unnecessary death and bloodshed.”  

“There is no victory without sacrifice, Clarke. You are not so naïve to think so.”

“I know that there are peaceful avenues to unite these clans that you probably haven’t even considered because of your unwavering reliance on the Nightblood teachings.”

Her knee-jerk criticism of Lexa’s dogmatic beliefs goes over about as well as usual, which is to say that Lexa’s expression darkens noticeably. “Tell me, Clarke, how many lives aboard the Ark were lost so that you and your mother and the others who landed with you might have a chance at survival?”

There had been purges back then; Clarke shudders to think of them. Some people she knew and some she didn’t, lost to the vacuum of cold, dark space. Volunteers were taken in the early stages of shutdown, but after a time—

“That was done as a last resort,” she argues. “You say you value the lives of your people, and yet you continuously ask them to die for your causes.”

“In every death, there is life lost and life gained.”

Clarke shakes her head, leaning back into the chair. She can’t believe that after everything, they’re back here again. “Don’t do that, Lexa. Haven’t we moved beyond the point where you just throw Trigeda proverbs at me as an answer for everything?”

Lexa bristles but does not otherwise react. “My people rely on these teachings because they speak to our continued existence. If we do not fight against Azgeda and the clans united with them, we will not survive. Your intentions are often good, Clarke, but you continuously lack perspective. The Cape is mired in peaceful activity.” Lexa’s expression darkens, her posture rigid. “This is not the life of other settlements. Azgeda perpetuate violence—they are led by a queen who rules through unrelenting fear and dominance. She and her forces must be stopped by whatever means necessary, including an offensive front.”

“There has to be another way. I refuse to believe that the only option is yet _another_ call to war.”

“Some lives are not worth saving.”

“ _Every_ life is worth saving!”

Lexa rolls her eyes, a good sign of her vanishing patience. “You share the vapid ideals of your bedmate. No doubt her pacifist influence has been alluring—”

“My beliefs are my own,” Clarke snaps. “And my _bedmates_ are none of your business.” She is now roiling with renewed anger and stands abruptly to her feet. “Luna’s convictions about peace were what drove her to walk away from the Conclave—from the _one thing_ she spent her entire life training for. She risked losing her identity as Nightblood by refusing to participate, and that couldn’t have been fucking easy. Could you _ever_ be so convicted of something that falls outside your prescribed teachings?”

Lexa stands too, though much more slowly—her movements composed and purposed. She says nothing in response, refusing to engage. Not a shred of uncertainty or synapse out of place. Clarke wants to throttle her a little bit just to spark a reaction. No wonder Raven had once considered them robotic half-breeds.

Lexa swallows once, placing her hands behind her back. “We leave in the morning. Your mother and Nyko are expected to be in Polis upon our return.”

“If that’s all you wanted to say to me, then my answer is a firm _hell no_. Fight your own wars, Lexa—I want no part of them.”

:::

Clarke returns to her empty hut still fuming, pacing its meager length to try and calm her racing pulse. She’d stormed out of Lexa’s tent and stalked straight to Luna’s hut only to find she wasn’t there. She should return to her classes for the day, or even just go to the beach. Being near the water and walking its sandy shores will soothe her frayed nerves, but Clarke can’t currently think beyond her rage. She’s mad at Lexa’s audacity and presumption—for her single-minded agenda that continuously puts people in danger. She’s mad at her mom for what feels like reckless betrayal. She’s mad at Raven for not being here when she needs her most.    

The wind through her open windows rustles Clarke’s blonde curls and she steps outside to see a clouded, darkening sky. Storm season on the Cape can be particularly brutal, according to Lincoln, though Clarke has yet to witness any true devastation since arriving almost eight months ago. High winds rip through their narrow streets, and Clarke can almost smell the rain approaching. Some of her neighbors are securing their wide-brimmed roofs and further battening their tents with additional supports. She wanders up the street, offering to help as she goes. Securing knots and hammering stakes is at the very least distracting from her anger and at most a satisfying outlet for her frustration.

“Clarke, do you need help with your hut as well?” Luna asks, finding her not forty-five minutes later. “Lincoln is on his way if we need more hands.” She has to raise her voice above the howl of increasing winds, but the rain has held off for now.

“I don’t know,” Clarke answers, struggling to tighten a knot at the base of Finn’s tent. He is her good-natured, floppy-haired neighbor, who has no family other than the people of this village who took him in when he was small. “I think it’s probably fine.”

Her anger had lessened with each task, but seeing Luna has all of her emotions rushing back with a force like the winds. She has the sudden urge to march back into Lexa’s tent and demand an apology. Luna’s hand comes to rest on her shoulder where she stands above her, and Clarke jumps at the contact.

Drawing her hand away slowly, Luna watches her curiously. “Let’s go. We will check your roof.”

Clarke stands, brushing off her hands. “Are you okay here, Finn?”

“Sha,” he smiles. “Chof, Clarke. You need help too? I could come by.”

“We will let you know,” Luna answers, and Clarke nods with a wave as they head back to her hut.

They circle Clarke’s home together, examining its roof and open windows. Luna makes the decision for them both that they’ll weather the storm together and follows Clarke inside. Once indoors with a growing fire and Luna’s calming presence, Clarke is glad for her company.

“He likes you, you know.”

Clarke laughs, collapsing into a seat. “Yeah, I know.”

“And you?”

“Finn’s nice, but. Not really my type,” Clarke shrugs, reaching for a bowl of fruit off her table and setting it onto the floor between them. She thinks absently of Finn’s easy smile and kind eyes, wondering what it would be like to feel satisfied with someone like that.

 _Easier,_ she thinks. _Infinitely easier._

Luna hums, always watching her with this kind of amused calculation—she has always had Clarke’s number, no matter how often Clarke denies it.

“You saw Lexa then.”

Sometimes it feels like being slapped in the face, hearing that name. Clarke picks at the bowl of fruit, trying not to let her irritation show as thoughts of her conversation with Lexa resurface. She sits in the only chair in her house, more of a low stool really, while Luna stretches her long legs across the dirt floor and leans against the simple cot that Clarke uses for a bed.

“Hopefully for the last time,” Clarke grumbles.

Luna huffs in amusement, reaching both hands into her hair in an attempt to tie back its thick, wildly sprawling curls. “That bad?”

“She wanted me to leave with her.” Luna pauses with her hands in her hair to raise a suspicious eyebrow. “Not like _that_ —she expected me to work as a healer. To go into battle with her military forces. She says I’m not safe here as if I’d be any safer thrown into the middle of a battlefield.”

“There is safety here that she cannot control.”

Clarke answers with her mouth full of tart, red berries and a furrowed brow. “What the hell does that mean?”

“So much of what Lexa says does not exist in the words she speaks aloud.”

“Okay, so she wants me to put my life in danger by joining her war effort just so that she can what—keep an eye on me?”

Luna shrugs, reaching into the bowl between them for a handful of berries. “Is that so hard to imagine?”

“Yes!” Clarke laughs, incredulous. “Lexa isn’t concerned with my safety, she’s just pissed off that your people refuse her Coalition. Or, that you won’t back her efforts. If she’s mad about a lack of control over something, it’s definitely not about me.”

“Mmm, perhaps many things contribute to her frustrations,” Luna muses. “She does, after all, detest travel across the bay. That alone could have placed her in a foul mood.”

Clarke pauses with another handful of berries. “Lexa hates boats?”

Luna’s smile widens as her dark eyes grow distant at the recollection. “Since we were small. She has never favored them.”

The information makes Clarke smile in spite of herself. Imagining a young Lexa, petrified of being on the water and no doubt taunted mercilessly by Luna, has Clarke biting at her bottom lip. It’s always been so easy for her to reduce Lexa’s entire identity to the aspects of it that she willingly portrays. Those characteristics of her personality are definitely strongest—the ones she projects for the world to see. Strength. Stoicism. Intimidation. Wisdom. Natblida. Heda. But then there are the parts of herself that she reveals to no one.

_Or, nearly no one._

Later that night with Luna asleep beside her, when the winds and rain have finally calmed, Clarke’s thoughts return to Lexa. She allows her mind to wander back to their time together along the train tracks, memories that have not faded over time despite her constant repression of them. She can’t help but contemplate Lexa’s true intentions for asking her to leave the Cape. Despite thinking that Luna’s theories remain unfounded and improbable, she wonders. She wonders what Lexa might have said if they allowed themselves the luxury of honesty. She wonders if she and Lexa will always maintain this distance between them while still fighting to keep each other safe.         

:::

The following morning, Clarke wakes at first light. She dresses quietly, leaving Luna asleep in her bed, and heads up the path towards the center of the village. The Commander’s tents are gone—nothing remains but the flattened ground and grass where they once stood. Clarke stands rooted to the spot for several seconds before she is heading off in another direction.

Docks have been built on the bayside of the island—a generous stretch of coast dedicated to larger trade ships as well as smaller fishing boats and rafts used for personal travel. At this time of day, it’s likely the busiest part of the village as women and men prepare for a day on the water with their nets and buckets and woven traps. It doesn’t take long to find her; Lexa’s entourage of steel-faced warriors in dark fabrics and armor stick out noticeably among all her docile, unarmed neighbors. She doesn’t see Lexa specifically, but her gonakru presence is a good indication that they haven’t yet set sail for Polis, and that’s a start.

Clarke tries to seek out one of the guards from the day before but finds only strangers with unfriendly faces. She takes a deep breath and approaches the least intimidating of two warriors that stand near the gangway. Not that either of them look warm and welcoming. Clarke would almost, _almost_ prefer to see Anya or Octavia as opposed to these unfamiliar women, and that is really saying something.

“I need to see L—the Commander. Please.” The woman stares back at her blankly, and Clarke tries not to shift on her feet. “Ai gaf chich Heda.”

Still she doesn’t move, but after a quick glance, the woman beside her turns and boards the ship at their back. Clarke watches her retreating form with no small amount of anxiety, but within minutes the warrior returns to usher Clarke aboard the boat.

The short walk to Lexa’s quarters aboard the ship give Clarke little time to gather her thoughts. She woke up knowing that she needed to see Lexa again before she left the island. Leaving things unresolved will only further torment her thoughts, and Clarke spends enough time trying not to think about her as it is. Still, a little forethought into how this could go wouldn’t have killed her. Her impetuous decisions generally tend to work out in her favor, even if on this particular morning she’s swallowing down her nerves to no avail.

Lexa is facing a porthole as Clarke enters, hands clasped behind her back, and does not turn around to face her until the warrior clicks the door shut as she leaves.

“Clarke. You wanted to see me.”  

There are a hundred ways to respond. There are countless things that Clarke wants to say. Probably more. She takes a deep breath and begins with a simple truth. “I did.” Lexa remains silently observant, her face again masked in dark kohl. Clarke finds it incredibly hard to read her expressions even without the added layer of mystery. “Yesterday, I—” she stops, pinching her lips together before continuing.

Lexa takes a step forward, reaching a hand to touch the table at her right side. Even docked at the shore, there is still a detectable movement as the ship sways in a low current. Clarke wonders if Lexa is discreetly attempting to keep her balance. “You were angry. I brought you news about your mother which you find unfavorable.”

“I can’t lose her too.” Clarke’s voice cracks, and she hates that her emotions are already so visible.

“She has chosen her path. Just as you have chosen yours.” There is no residual spite behind Lexa’s words. Her voice remains calm and reserved, even if it is not the softer tones that Clarke craves.

She clears her throat, fighting against the emotion lodged there. “Where will you go? What will she be doing?”

“The settlements most tormented by Azgeda and its forces lie within Podakru territory. They are at great risk of annihilation and most in need of our protections. We head west to bring them a chance for survival. To defeat Azgeda’s cruel regime once and for all. Nyko and Abby have spoken of establishing a medical training facility among the Lake People.”   

“So she won’t be … in battle,” Clarke hedges.

Lexa’s eyes drift about the cabin as she brings both hands to lightly grip the table’s edge behind her. “I cannot guarantee her safety, Clarke.” She looks back to Clarke and her eyes match the trees in the forests that Clarke remembers outside TonDC. “You know that I am not able to value one life above another.”

Luna’s words return to her, and Clarke contemplates all the things that Lexa is saying in spite of her reticence. She nods, licking her lips and releasing a sigh. “I know.”

“I cannot ensure her protections beyond that of anyone else, but I can … _encourage_ Nyko to make suggestions that they remain within the villages once we arrive. It is less likely that direct attacks will continue once we have established a presence. Your mother could care for the injured without leaving the relative safety of the village perimeter.” Lexa pauses, as if considering, and when she speaks again Clarke detects a hint of levity. “Of course, this is not to say that I expect her to be easily convinced. There is a regretful history of obstinate behavior in her bloodline.”  

Yesterday she fought against urges to throttle her. Not 24 hours later, and Clarke is fighting a smile at Lexa’s subtle humor, holding her breath to see if it will be reflected in the curve of Lexa’s mouth. “You’re not exactly amenable yourself, you know.”

“I have been accused of far worse.” The arch to Lexa’s eyebrows causes Clarke to look away with a huff of nervous laughter.

She crosses her arms then uncrosses them to stick her hands into the pockets of her jacket. Her fingers graze the object in her left pocket, which she had grabbed as she left her hut, and she clears her throat. “Thank you for the news of my mom and for … anything that can be done to try and keep her safe.”

Lexa inclines her head. Clarke hates to admit that, of all the ridiculous things, she has missed Lexa’s wordless replies. Her hands clench into fists within her pockets, but then she is taking a step forward to close the distance between them. She extracts a handful of dusty roots from her pocket and extends them to Lexa in an open palm.

“For the journey back to Polis. It’s, um, ginger root. It helps to settle the stomach.”

It’s probably a massive violation of her privacy, and there’s no doubt that Lexa could easily deduce where Clarke got the information. But, when Clarke looks up as Lexa slowly accepts the offering, plucking it carefully from her upturned palm, her expression is not shadowed by anger or malice.

Her eyes are searching and her movements cautious as she takes the ginger. “Mochof.”

A knock is quickly followed by the door opening, and Clarke steps backward as if she and Lexa are guilty of something sordid and improper instead of merely exchanging herbal remedies. “Heda, we are ready to set sail.”

“I should go,” Clarke says.

“Sarak will escort you.” The door remains ajar though the guard steps outside, leaving Clarke and Lexa relatively alone if not still within earshot. At Clarke’s hesitance, Lexa says, “Unless you have changed your mind.”

“No,” Clarke looks up to see Lexa’s half-expectant gaze and suddenly feels very warm and short of breath. “No, I have to go.”

Lexa nods one last time, and Clarke exhales. She’s readying herself to turn and walk away when Lexa takes a step towards her, extending her right arm. Clarke’s gaze drops to the unexpected gesture in disbelief, but her hand is raised to clasp Lexa’s forearm seconds later. Lexa keeps her eyes cast downward while a slow exhale leaves her lips.

When she looks up, Clarke’s gaze is already waiting for her. “May we meet again,” Lexa says. It is finally the soft and vulnerable quality that Clarke has been longing to hear.

“May we meet again,” she echoes, her own voice lacking composure as their fingers flex against each other at random intervals.              

:::

Luna stretches languidly, arms extended above her mess of wild, dark brown curls and triceps dotted with marks made by Clarke’s own mouth. She groans as her hips shift, linens falling below her waist, and Clarke can’t help but smile appreciatively at the sight. Luna is a lot of things, but beautiful is definitely one of them. They have been waking slowly, sharing soft, inconsequential words while their eyes drift open and shut.

Lexa has been gone for three weeks, and Clarke finally feels a much-welcomed return to their normal routines.

“What are you even talking about?” she says in response to Luna’s indecipherable mumbling, her voice scratching out from having just woken moments ago.

“Natblida teachings still often plague my dreams.” Luna’s laugh is light and soft. “The purpose of the blood is to show strength in weakness.”

Clarke never has to clarify whether Luna is speaking candidly or merely reciting the foundations of her previous education as Natblida. There is a tone that they always take—a somber quality that resonates even as Luna says it in jest, as if she cannot detract from this facet of her teaching despite having walked away from so much. Every single one of the the Nightbloods has been taught to speak the Trigeda proverbs this way, though it had always been more pronounced when listening to—

Clarke clears her throat, refusing to allow the name to pass through her thoughts. “Strength in weakness? What’s that supposed to represent?”

“Our physical limitation, our looming death.” Luna yawns. “The curse of the black blood that our ancestors brilliantly transformed into an honored gift.”

“Looming death?” Clarke’s brow furrows deeper, though her mouth still slopes in a lazy smile. She enjoys these mornings, these mindless talks before they start their days. “Sounds very ominous.”

Luna’s mouth twists in confusion, finally turning her head to make eye contact. “Natblida die young, Clarke.”

All humor vanishes from Clarke’s face and something dark and sickly begins to burrow inside her gut. She barely manages to ask, “What?”

Luna sits up, propping her weight onto an elbow to face Clarke in their shared bed. “Jus-de na buk au omon trei. Did you really not know this?”

“The blood will run its course,” Clarke translates. “What—what does that—”

“Natblida are never far from death. It’s in our—what is your word for it—biology?” Clarke feels as if she cannot catch a breath even as Luna continues to calmly explain. “Have you never wondered about the rate at which the mantle of Heda passes between us?”      

“The last several Commanders have died in battle, or because of outright murder—they died because of their violent agenda.” Clarke argues, determined to find the lie, though Luna has no reason to be dishonest about something so grave. “If a Commander were to finally subvert this damaging pattern of constant warfare, there wouldn’t be a need for so many Conclaves.”

“Even a Heda determined to have a legacy of peace is still limited by the blood in her veins, Clarke.”

Clarke frowns, suppressing a grimace. “I wasn’t talking about Lexa.”

“Sure you weren’t,” Luna smirks, still just as placid as if they had been discussing the cooling temperatures along the coast and not the mortality of an entire subset of people. Herself included.

Refusing to acknowledge her panicked concerns for the woman in her bed let alone Commanders who shall remain nameless, Clarke’s medical training takes over. “How serious is it? I mean, what’s the typical lifespan?”

“Natblida rarely see more than twenty winters.”

“ _Jesus_. Luna, you—“

“Nineteen winters this coming season,” she smiles humorlessly. “Yes, I’m aware.”

“That’s … that’s impossible.” The air leaves Clarke’s lungs in a vacuum and her limbs feel weighted by a growing panic. “You can’t tell me that a Nightblood has _never_ survived into later adulthood, though. There must be exceptions.”

“I can’t say that definitively, no,” Luna shrugs. “But if you’re asking me about a recorded history among my people that clearly documents our untimely deaths, then yes. The proof is there, Clarke. Natblida do not live to see many winters.”

Clarke’s eyes fall to the thin mattress beneath them, unfocused and glazed as she begins to process the information at breakneck speeds. “Higher mortality rates. Why?”

Luna crosses the bed into Clarke’s personal space by leaning forward and pressing a warm kiss onto her bared shoulder. “You’re the fisa genius, Clarke. Maybe you’ll figure it out in time to save my life.” She’s grinning broadly as she pulls away, but Clarke remains too stunned to react as Luna slides from the linens and makes her way to the wash basin.

:::

Clarke’s childhood curiosities about the Nightbloods quickly escalate towards insatiable research. Luna had been right: Floukru fisa maintain detailed records on everything—Nightbloods, for once, are no exception. The records aren’t nearly comprehensive enough for Clarke’s purposes, but they’re a good start. Polis is likely an epicenter for record-keeping as well, but Clarke isn’t ready to be that close to Lexa again. Not until she knows more about what she’s dealing with when it comes to the health risks of Natblida. She can’t think about what that would mean, standing in a room with her and knowing that at any time Lexa could just—

 _No._ Better to wait and sort out her findings here before heading to Polis. There’s still so much to uncover, to understand. For all the unknowns that plague her research, and there are many, Clarke is tireless in her pursuits. She is determined to crack the code and find the solution. It’s the only option.

Lincoln instantly becomes her confidant, her sounding board, her partner in crime. While their teachers encourage inquiry and independent study, Clarke treads a fine line by questioning something so sacred. Natblida are blessed and honored; they are not to be dissected like a science experiment.

With Lincoln’s gentle guidance and relative knowledge on early medical practices, they are able to conduct their research without calling too much attention to themselves. They spend long afternoons sifting through the ancient texts of Floukru’s first healers, written in a script that Lincoln, thankfully, is adept at transcribing. They hypothesize and draw up theories and keep detailed notes in the empty pages of their sketchbooks. The information is helpful for creating a backdrop, but it isn’t enough. Everything is still shrouded in spiritual traditions, and Clarke needs more than a prayer if she’s going to save lives.

Luna is officially tired of hearing about it.

“Can we please talk about something else?”

“How can you say that? Your life literally hangs in the balance,” Clarke presses, stoking a fire in her hut over which a pot of stew simmers. “I need all the information I can gather if I’m going to help.”

“Is it my life for which you worry?” Luna is laid in bed, still recovering from another tiresome week away. This time of year, as the northern settlements begin to lose some of their resources, the Floukru trade booms with fish and fruit and vegetation that still grows in their warmer climates of the Cape.

Clarke doesn’t need to look at her to know what Luna’s implying. She loves to goad where Clarke refuses to acknowledge her insinuations. She keeps her attention on the stew and answers confidently. “Yes, of course I worry for you. And every other Nightblood who risks losing their life simply because staunch tradition precludes scientific inquiry.”  

She does not say _even Lexa_ , though her name hangs heavy in the silence.

For weeks after Luna had revealed the genetic deficiencies of her lineage, Clarke hovered—probing for symptoms, constantly assessing for changes in her behavior or abilities, checking in on her several times a day. When Luna avoided her and slept alone in her own bed for several consecutive nights, Clarke finally took the hint and tried to dial back her concerns.  

“I support this, and I support you. But, I know only what I was taught about my blood, Clarke. My basis for knowledge is limited by that same tradition that is limiting your research.”

“I know. But you’re free of that now,” Clarke says, moving to sit on the bed near Luna’s feet. “And, you’re constantly trading in different regions. You could travel, and you could talk to people—ask questions, gather information, hear their stories, meet other Natblida.”

Luna nudges her softly with her foot. Her eyes droop with fatigue. “So could you.”

It’s something she’s never considered, and her instinct is to instantly deny the possibility. She can’t travel. She’s always been fairly shit at riding horses, for one. She doesn’t know the land either, and though she speaks the language and respects the customs she is still, in a lot of ways, seen as an outsider.

Even as her hand falls softly onto Luna’s ankle, the gears in Clarke’s head have begun to churn. She can’t go alone, and she couldn’t ask Luna to go with her—she has responsibilities here as a representative and leader for her people. She may have abandoned many of her Nightblood ideals, but her people still view her with importance, an invaluable ambassador for them between other clans and with the capital itself. Clarke’s eyes drift to her open sketchbook and the stick of charcoal beside it, which Lincoln had sharpened for her earlier in the day. By the time they’re eating dinner later that night, a creamy fish stew with potatoes and leeks, Clarke’s mind is made up.  

“I’m going to do it.”

“Travel?” Luna asks.

“Yeah. And I’m gonna ask Lincoln to go with me.”

Luna watches her with an approving smile, a spoonful of stew partway to her mouth. “Good.”

:::

“Did she say why?”

Clarke had been intercepted by Lincoln on her way back from the beach after a morning spent gathering, and now follows him towards the docks on the opposite side of the island. According to Lincoln, she’s been asked to meet Luna there, who has spent the past several days trading up and down the coast.

Lincoln offers her a smiling, sideways glance. “Does she ever provide explanations for her demands?”

“Good point.”

There are ships in the harbor and crews unloading dry goods, milling about, readjusting their sea legs to solid ground. Smaller fishing boats bob in the soft current, and Clarke’s eyes are scanning for Luna when they land on an unexpectedly familiar face.

“Raven?!”

Raven beams, making her way down one of the docks. “Miss me?” The force of Clarke colliding into her produces a small _oof_ as Raven’s arms wrap around Clarke’s back. “I’ll take that as a yes,” she laughs.

Clarke is hesitant to release her grip, an irrational fear crawling over her that Raven might vanish if she lets go. It’s been an entire year, and she’s missed her best friend more than she had allowed herself to admit. She keeps her head buried into the crook of Raven’s shoulder for a long moment, but then she needs to see her face again to confirm she’s actually here.

“Oh my god.” Clarke shakes her head, eyes welling in emotion that feels like it’s bursting from within. “I’m—I can’t believe—”

“All right, all right, don’t start that shit—we’ll never stop,” Raven laughs, a little watery herself, and pulls Clarke in for another rough hug.

Clarke wipes her fingers beneath her eyes a few times, pulling herself together. “How are you here right now?”

Raven hitches a thumb over her shoulder, indicating one of Floukru’s larger vessels. “Big, giant, bobbing wooden thing floated me all the way from Polis.”

“Jackass,” Clarke laughs, smacking Raven’s arm. “Obviously by boat, but—”

“Your girlfriend came to see me,” Raven shrugs before leveling Clarke with a pointed look. “And don’t think we aren’t gonna talk about _that_ later.”

“She’s not my girlfriend,” Clarke mumbles, her cheeks burning red.

“Yeah, whatever. Anyway, she said you needed shit for some project you’re working on and that maybe I could help.”

Luna comes bounding down a gangway at that moment, and Clarke looks up to catch her eye. Luna’s grin is lopsided and her dark eyes sparkle in the high noon sun. Even at a distance, Clarke reads her face without a second thought—she knows she did a good thing. She makes Clarke happy and expects nothing in return. Everything between them always feel so simple. Then there are times when Clarke looks at her and thinks that might not be completely true.

Clarke reaches for her as she nears, briefly squeezing her fingers. “Thanks.”

Luna only shrugs, as if she hasn’t just made Clarke’s entire day, or year, or life by bringing Raven to the Cape. “I’m going to nap. I will see you both later?”

“Are you feeling okay?” Clarke feels a surge in her chest, the worry she keeps buried there for Luna’s health and well-being.

“Just tired,” Luna sighs, returning an affection by gripping Clarke’s fingers before letting go. She ambles down the busy docks towards Lincoln, who has been mingling with a group of fishermen since they arrived.

Clarke’s gaze lingers, her spike of concern not yet abated, until Raven expels a quick laugh. “Well, Griffin, you definitely have a type.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

Clarke is scowling even as Raven wraps an arm around her neck and begins leading them farther away from the crowds and ships. She pinches Clarke’s cheek. “You’re so cute when you play dumb.”

“I’m not playing at anything,” Clarke laughs, swatting Raven’s hand away before wrapping an arm around her waist. “And do you even know where you’re going right now?”

“Nope.” Raven lets the word pop between her lips as they saunter down the docks. “And I don’t care—it’s warm as hell, the sun is shining, and I’m with you.”

“Aw, Raven—” Clarke coos, glancing up in surprise at her best friend.

“Okay, enough. That was my singular allowance for sentimental crap of any kind,” she says like a proclamation. “From here on out, we discuss only your obsession with the Nightbloods and what you expect me to do about it.”

“I’m not _obsessed_.”

“You are both conducting a massive study about their origins in order to understand their faulty DNA, _and_ you’re currently sleeping with one. So I’d say obsessed is an understatement. And don’t even get me started on the other one.”

“Um, what _other_ one?” Clarke laughs. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about the procession of strong, brooding, tattooed women you keep finding yourself with who, oh yeah, also happen to share a unique bloodline.”

Clarke’s laugh is more like a scoff. “I realize this will shatter your perceptions of my sexual prowess, but Luna is the only person I’ve ever slept with. There is no _other one_.”

“Hold on.” Raven stops abruptly, turning to face Clarke with her arms folded. “Are you seriously trying to tell me that you and the Nightblood golden child, also known as our fearless, all-mighty Commander, spent the night in an abandoned train car together and nothing happened?”

“I told you at the time that nothing happened!”

Raven wags a finger in front of Clarke’s nose. “No, what you said was that Lexa wasn’t as full of herself as you’d originally assumed, that she had been _nice_ to you, and that you thought she’d make a good Commander.”

“Yeah, and?”

Raven crosses her arms again, scrutinizing her with narrowed eyes. Clarke tries very hard not to squirm. “So that’s it. Nothing happened.” It’s not quite a question but Raven very clearly expects an answer.

Flashes of that kiss, of Lexa’s parted lips and shallow breaths, assault Clarke’s senses in a way that makes it hard to swallow let alone perpetuate the lie. She can almost smell the smoke from the fire and feel the dewy ground beneath her fingertips. She is not poetic enough to remember every detail, but she does recall how soft and uncertain Lexa had been as their lips met.

She looks away with some feigned exasperation, shuttering the memory back where it belongs: in the forgotten past. “Nothing happened.”

Raven doesn’t push for more, though Clarke doesn’t believe this will be the last of it. She resumes walking in the direction they’d been headed until Clarke tugs at her elbow to redirect her towards the center of the island where the tents and huts are gathered. It’s early autumn and a fair bit cooler than a few weeks ago, but Raven is right—it’s a beautiful day.

She tips her head to the sky, allowing Clarke to lead her inland. “I can’t believe you live here.”

Clarke laughs, keeping their arms looped together all the way back to her house.  

:::

“Okay, so what do we do about it?” Raven digs in for another bite of fish, pausing just before shoveling it into her mouth. “Also, holy shit—this is so good.”

“I know, right? Master chef over here.” Clarke smiles at Lincoln before addressing Raven. His roasted fish a resounding success yet again. They’ve gathered in her crowded hut as the sun sets with Luna taking a seat at the edge of the bed, Lincoln stretched along the floor near the fire next to Clarke, and Raven on a low, wooden stool. “We take samples. Like, a lot of samples, which is what Lincoln and I will work on gathering. We need to compile a history of illnesses, symptoms, and,” she exhales, avoiding Luna in her peripheral, “fatalities in order to analyze the data. But we also need to examine this stuff at a cellular level—microscopes, glass slides, centrifuge. The records here are full of statistical data about Natblida, but there are gaping holes when it comes to the blood’s physical properties. Why it is the way it is and how it got that way.”

Raven’s eyebrows shoot upward. “Uh, tall order much?”     

“That’s where you come in,” Clarke continues, undeterred. “According to the historical accounts that we know of, the first people to emerge after the bombs were residents of Polis. Or, what became Polis. In any case, if we’re going to find any remaining medical tech it’s got to be in the city. How much access do you have to, I don’t know, dig around a bit?”

Raven contemplates, tapping the tines of her fork onto her plate. “I mean, I have certain clearances because of my work with the other engineers and city planners, but I’ll see what I can do while flying under the radar.” She hesitates briefly before suggesting, “Of course, you could always just ask Her Royal Highness to give me unfettered access since you two are such good pals.”

Luna smirks, covering her laugh with a drink of wine.

“No, I—I’m not ready for Lexa to know anything about this yet.” Lexa will object. Lexa will order a cease and desist. Clarke will try to save her life, and Lexa will fight her to the funeral pyre. “Can we just … keep this between us for now?”

“The less people who know your intentions, the better,” Lincoln adds. “There will be those in favor, who may flock for a cure we don’t yet have. But there will also be those who oppose your inquisition into something seen as sacred. A bloodline that should not be questioned.”

“Exactly,” Clarke nods.

“Okay, cool,” Raven agrees with an easy shrug. “I prefer not talking to people anyway.”

“There is a building there,” Luna chimes in, leaning forward to offer Raven more wine. “I will direct you to it. I believe it may contain some of what Clarke hopes to find.”

“Really?” Clarke turns towards Luna, who nods with a small smile.

“Great.” Raven accepts another pour and nudges Clarke’s foot with her own. “I also pilfered some shit from your mom’s medical stash, by the way. There was still some stuff miraculously left over from the Ark. Might be useful for gathering samples when you and Mr. Muscles hit the road.”

Clarke’s mouth gapes momentarily while Lincoln chuckles quietly beside her. “I really love you, do you know that?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Raven says through an eye roll. “You fucking better.”

:::

At night they lay in the stillness. The fire has long since gone out, and the breeze through Clarke’s  open windows is cool but not unbearable. Even this far inland, the sounds of the ocean tides can be heard at night. Clarke feels the pull of sleep from its familiar, lulling sounds dragging her under. She also feels Raven beside her, their arms and legs touching at random angles in the small bed.

When she speaks, Raven’s voice is small. “Are you afraid?”

“Afraid of what?”

“Of losing her.”

Clarke doesn’t answer for several, quiet breaths. She lays completely still and listens to the distant, crashing waves. She thinks of asking: _losing who?_ She rolls over onto her side instead, letting her arm fall across Raven’s stomach in an old gesture that has not lost its comforts.

It doesn’t matter who Raven is asking about because the answer, either way, is: “Yes.”

“We’re going to figure it out.” Raven’s quiet promise settles over them, and Clarke drifts off to sleep with Raven clutching loosely to her fingers.  

:::

“Okay, this is freaking Paradise. I seriously cannot believe you live here, you bitch.”

Clarke laughs and bumps her hip into Raven’s who walks beside her along the coast. Raven had lost her mind upon seeing the ocean for the first time—ran directly into the surf in all her clothes and then screeched as she darted back onto the warmer sand.

“It’s nice. Most of the time.”

“Except I’m not here.”

Clarke looks over at her with a smile that is already tinged in sadness. “That is definitely a major bummer.”

Not long after Lexa’s Ascension, Raven had followed Wells to Polis. Things were changing. TonDC no longer felt impenetrable to the mounting dangers of unrest. Reports of similar attacks on other settlements swarmed daily. Wells and his band of political erudites were taken to Polis almost immediately to help strategize further alliances. Then Raven and Kane left for the capital as well. Clarke woke up one morning feeling lost and very much alone—rudderless now with her best friends gone and her surroundings unrecognizable. She felt restless in her routines and increasingly unhappy. When Luna returned to TonDC with the other Nightbloods and offered an escape to her native lands farther south, Clarke couldn’t refuse.

“You’ve got people here, though. That’s good.”

“Yeah,” Clarke agrees readily if only to push past the ache in her chest at the idea of losing Raven to Polis all over again. “The people here are amazing.”

“So, what’s up with you two anyway?”

“Luna?”

Raven performs an exemplary eye roll and Clarke can’t help but laugh. “Duh.”

“I don’t know—we have fun. She’s good company and we’re pretty compatible.” Clarke stuffs her hands deeper into her jacket pockets. The breeze off the ocean side of the island is always cooler, and a chill runs up the back of her neck as her hair blows about. “It’s simple with her, and easy and … uncomplicated.”

Raven nods a few times in contemplation. “So, not at all like some kind of, I don’t know, tortured, unresolved, years-long infatuation with a distant, brooding, star-crossed Nightblood, right?”

“Raven …” Clarke warns.

Raven throws up her hands in mock self-defense. “What? I’m just checking.”  

“I’m not infatuated with … _anyone_.”

“But you’re not in love with Luna either, are you?”

Raven isn’t trying to be insensitive, but the comment still stings. Clarke doesn’t know why it feels like an accusation except that it’s a truth Clarke would rather not confront. She isn’t in love with Luna, but there are too many other frayed ends to that thread that Clarke is not yet ready to pull apart.

Instead she says, “We’re friends.”

“No, _we’re_ friends,” Raven counters with a hand gesturing between them. “You and Luna are special, naked romping buddies. There should be a separate name for that like …” she snaps her fingers a few times, feigning concentration. “Girlfriends! That’s it! You should be called _girlfriends_.”

Clarke laughs again, this time shoving Raven into the dunes by a few feet. “She is not my girlfriend!”

When Raven rejoins her along the water’s edge she doesn’t push the topic any further, and Clarke relaxes into the sounds of lapping water and gulls overhead. The sun has begun its slow arc towards the horizon, and the skies are bursting with color. There are days and weeks that pass where she loses track of the significant changes her life has taken—no longer suspended in a cold, dark, endless void but grounded in sights, and smells, and sounds of a planet still in rebirth. Then there are moments like this, when she feels like she might combust from so much sensory overload.

“I can’t believe you’re into girls and spent countless nights in the same bed as me without making a move. Should I be offended?”

Clarke wraps an arm around Raven’s waist and laughs as they stumble together across wet sand. “I just always assumed you were out of my league, Reyes.”

Raven’s answering laugh is the absolute best sound on the entire planet, and it rings in her ears long after she’s gone back to Polis.

:::

After a three-day depressive episode following Raven’s departure, Luna forces her from bed and drags her to the beach. She’s brought with them some items that Clarke doesn’t fully process until Luna has tossed them onto the damp sand.

“What are we doing here?”

Luna stands a few feet in front of her casually spinning her wooden staff with one hand. “Granplei.”

“Training for what?”

“You plan to cross many miles of land, and you have prepared admirably on all fronts.” Luna smiles as she tosses the staff to Clarke, who fumbles gracelessly to catch it. “Except for one.”

“You’re gonna teach me to fight?”

Luna leans down for pieces of light armor before approaching Clarke. She handles Clarke’s limbs with ease, her grip familiar as she works the worn leather into place with a sloping grin. “To survive.”

She stands at Clarke’s back, tightening straps and securing buckles, while Clarke stands motionless allowing herself to be handled. “You’re not wearing any protective armor,” she comments, brow furrowed as Luna moves to face her and wraps another piece around her waist.

“I don’t intend to get struck.” Her eyes flick up to meet Clarke’s with her smile still taunting, and Clarke’s frown deepens.

“I can’t believe I used to think you lacked arrogance.”

Luna steps back by a few paces and laughs, swiping a second staff from the ground and performing another of her casual, single-handed spins. “My confidence is well-placed. Or would you care to prove me wrong?”

Clarke would very much like to pummel her mercilessly; or perhaps drag her back to bed immediately. She can’t decide. Either way, she’s lost her focus and the lesson hasn’t even begun.

It turns out to be a tiresome morning, and at the end of it Clarke feels no more safe or prepared than she had prior to Luna’s training. She does, however, feel completely drained and exhausted—her limbs sore and throbbing as they make their way back to Clarke’s hut.

“We’ll try again tomorrow.”

“You expect me to be able to _move_ tomorrow?”

Luna’s grin as she turns her head towards her almost alleviates some of the pain. Almost.

“I expect you to keep me alive, and to do that we must keep _you_ alive.” Her tone is light and jovial as it so often is, but her words hit Clarke square in the chest. Luna supports her, but she is also counting on her.  

:::

With winter approaching, Clarke wastes no time. She and Lincoln gather as much information as is available from Topeke’s medical facilities. Then it’s time to draw maps and establish best laid routes across the territories. Lincoln is decent at cartography where Clarke is better suited for organizing their methods and presenting a strong case for convincing Natblida to participate in their study. Lincoln and Luna have both told her to prepare for potential resistance. Clarke hates the idea of losing lives on the basis of stubborn beliefs, but she also doesn’t need to be reminded just how valued and irrefutable those beliefs tend to be.

“When will you leave?”

She sits in her hut with Luna in front of the fire. They’ve been enjoying a mutual silence, listening to the crackling wood and nighttime sounds, until Luna’s question breaks through the quiet. A marked distance has sprung up between them as of late—when they aren’t training with the staffs, Clarke is either with Lincoln or alone with her thoughts. Luna has taken more time to herself—traveling much more frequently up and down the coast with very few days in between.  

“A few days,” Clarke answers, her own voice scratched from recent disuse.

With the temperatures changing, it doesn’t make sense to head north into cooler climates. Lincoln has routed them south for several days, crossing the Great Bay before heading west. They intend to loop around through several major settlements in which Natblida are trained, much like they had been in TonDC, before finally landing in Polis. Luna nods but does not otherwise respond, her gaze locked into the fire before them. Clarke wonders if this is the part where they talk about what happens next. Who they are to each other, or where they will stand months from now, or a million other conversations that have never suited their dynamic.

Luna does not make eye contact as she tells Clarke, “I have enjoyed having you here.”

“Luna, I’ll be back,” Clarke is quick to say, a jolt of panic rising in her chest at the thought of never returning. Of the changes she knows are coming but which she is tempted to resist.

“I do not doubt that you will return to the Cape, but you were never meant to stay here.”

Clarke sighs and worries her bottom lip. “I really like it here.”

“It’s been good.” Luna turns to regard her warmly, the firelight dancing in those big, honest eyes. “But you intend to save a dying people, Clarke. And you cannot do that while hiding down here.”

“I haven’t been _hiding,_ ” Clarke laughs lightly.

Luna shrugs, her good-natured smile returning in full. “It would be okay if you were.”

Clarke exhales as her smile flickers. She gently nudges Luna’s foot with her own. “Thanks. I’ve really enjoyed being here.”

She doesn’t say: _with you_. The implication is there in Luna’s small, reflective smile, and Clarke feels the sentiment returned. They sleep together again that night, a return to something they haven’t shared in weeks; and Clarke falls asleep against Luna’s frame for the last time.

:::

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't help it. I think they have chemistry. But, if you must yell about Clarke getting her jollies with Luna then you may do so @mopeytropey.


	4. Oso laik Kyongedon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lexa sits in full regalia, the trappings of Heda’s status giving her strength and courage to ride into battle, to face a ruthless and unrelenting adversary; though it does little to quell the nerves in her stomach at seeing a girl she thinks far too much about.

**_Winter_ **

 

“Then it is settled,” Lexa announces, and the room around her quiets. “We march again at the new moon.”

It is as much of a dismissal as she will give, and the room disperses around her. She has been gathered for hours in one of the smaller war rooms of the Tower with only her highest generals in attendance as they finalize the next phase of their attack on Azgeda. From here she is meant to convene with ambassadors who represent individual clans within the Coalition, each responsible for disseminating information of the war’s efforts to their people. They look for peace, for safety; and Lexa will deliver it to them.

Rest will not come for several hours though the sun has already begun to set. Lexa has learned quickly that Heda’s daily schedule is unrelenting.

“Indra, strech au kom ai.”

The general—lead of all combined forces in Lexa’s gonakru—falls into step with her as commanded, and together they move along the echoed corridors of Polis Tower at a brisk pace.

“Have we received word from Ingranrona? They must not delay in selecting a representative.”

As a result of Lexa’s initial affront on Queen Nia’s forces in Podakru territory, the Plain Riders have become a severed ally now willing to join the Coalition. It was not a difficult negotiation. The people of Ingranrona had aligned with Ice Nation in the first place only as a result of tyranny and oppression. Queen Nia’s forces had been relentless in keeping the leaders of Plain Riders under its thumb, leaving them without an alternative; but no more. Lexa has liberated yet another clan through her determined efforts towards peace. 

“Their delegation should be arriving the day after tomorrow,” Indra reports.

She is forthright and uncompromising. Unemotive and solid. A paragon of militaristic leadership. Indra does not mince words nor does she require supervision. She is strong and smart and ruthless. Lexa is rather fond of her.

“I will speak with Marcus on the process of integration into the Coalition, but I leave their military coordination in your hands.”

“Sha, Heda. The knowledge gained from their gonakru who fought alongside Azgeda will be immeasurable.”

They have rounded the corner just outside the throne room when Lexa’s eyes catch on a figure lurking near its entrance. _Lurking_ is hardly the right word—there is nothing unsavoury or objectionable about the way Clarke paces the corridor. If Lexa weren’t so surprised at the sight of her, she might enjoy this version of Clarke looking utterly displaced and uncertain.

She and Indra slow as they reach the tall, double doors to the throne room, and Clarke looks up. Her expression is somewhat unrecognizable, almost as if she had forgotten Lexa’s face. Or as if she had not planned to see her, despite being stood in a tower that is ostensibly Lexa’s home and outside of a room over which Lexa presides council. For a very brief moment, Clarke’s eyes dart about Lexa’s features as if in search of something.

“Hei,” Clarke eventually says, casual as ever without a shred of deference. It relaxes something along Lexa’s spine even as Indra bristles beside her.

Lexa stops in front of her by a few paces, hands still clasped behind her back from her walk with Indra. “Clarke kom Skaikru has finally come to Polis.”

“Yeah. I’ve just arrived earlier today, actually.”

“This is General Indra kom Trikru.” Lexa steps back to angle herself between the two women. “She leads our forces beside me and is one of my top advisors. Indra, Clarke comes to us by way of Floudonkru territory but has her origins among the people of the Ark who landed near TonDC.”

“Welcome to Polis,” Indra says without sounding at all hospitable.

“Mochof,” Clarke answers stiffly. “Sorry, I know you’re busy. I should have … made an appointment or something.” She returns her attention to Lexa, who must work to keep the shock from her face. Clarke has never before approached her from a place of such caution. “Kane said I might find you here.”

“If you wish to speak for any length of time, it will have to be later,” Lexa informs her, still puzzled by Clarke’s curious demeanor. “Perhaps tomorrow.” She just barely refrains from expelling a long sigh, already exhausted at the thought of yet another long day of meetings.

“Right—sure, okay.”  

A beat passes between them, Lexa contemplating her response to this strange, new version of Clarke when Indra inclines her head just slightly to murmur, “Heda, I will meet you inside.”

“Indra, please ask Marcus to address the ambassadors regarding the incoming delegation,” Lexa directs. “I will join you momentarily.”

“Don’t let me keep you,” Clarke urges, even as the guards flanking the doors allow Indra entrance into the throne room.

Lexa catches a glimpse of the interior before returning her attention to Clarke, who looks perhaps more anxious now in the absence of Indra. An uncommon phenomena to be sure. She attempts a different approach. “Clarke, have you seen your mother?”

“Um. Not yet.” Clarke swallows, hands hidden in the pockets of her blue jacket and weight restlessly shifting from foot to foot.

“You will find her in the Polis Medical Facility—a large building of red brick that can be seen from the front of the Tower. She and Nyko both keep hours there daily.” Lexa relays the information calmly, despite her spike of concern that Clarke has sought her out ahead of locating her own mother. Her behavior is highly unusual, and Lexa feels a gnawing discomfort that Clarke is here on unfavorable terms. She does not currently have the time to ask all the questions she wants to ask, but an instinct to ensure Clarke’s safety wins out, as it so often does. She lowers her voice and asks, “Is everything well, Clarke?”

Again Clarke’s gaze flits across her face, a mild crease in her brow at whatever she finds there. “I’m—it was a long trip getting here.”

Lexa nods, not entirely convinced. “I must return to—”

“I know. You have to go.” Clarke starts to back away, shaking her head as she retreats. “I’ll just … see you later.”    

It is not high treason, but Lexa has certainly punished for less insubordinate behavior than daring to interrupt Heda. There is a familiar comfort, though, at having her speech overrun by Clarke’s incessant ramblings. It assuages a minor part of the concern she has for Clarke’s odd behavior, and Lexa turns to enter her meeting feeling more like herself than she has in months.      

:::

The seasons have changed considerably since she last saw Clarke on a summery, windswept cape. A discernible cold has settled over the city of Polis, and thin layers of frost are often found on the streets at first light. Lexa has another war to plan, a sprawling people to save, a Coalition to uphold. Over the past three months, she has put all other distracting thoughts out of her head for the sake of her ultimate objective: a lasting peace for her people.

Of course now the source of those distractions is roaming about the city, and Lexa finds herself fighting to keep focus as Marcus Kane details the logistics of incorporating yet another clan into the Coalition. A former ranking member of the Ark’s governing body, Marcus has been immeasurably beneficial to the aspects of growth and expansion for Lexa’s efforts.

The process is familiar to many in attendance, and incoming delegation has almost always been met with acceptance by existing ambassadors. Plain Riders, however, have only recently been liberated and are still viewed by some as a threat because of their previous alliance to Azgeda. Lexa herself had, at first, resisted offering asylum within her Coalition. In the end, it was the combined force of Marcus and Indra who had pushed her to see the value of inclusion. The mission of her Coalition cannot afford to be selective, and Ingranrona would provide invaluable military strength.  

“Em pleni,” Lexa interjects, throwing an authoritative hand into the air from where she sits on her throne. “We have heard enough of both objection and assurance for one day. Tomorrow we will call this decision to a vote—Ingranrona will be granted a place within our Coalition or be banished from our table.”

There are many who appear displeased at her declaration, eager to continue this circular debate. Marcus, for one, looks relieved to have been outranked by Heda’s final word. He finds her in a quiet moment near the throne as the room empties of its occupants.

“Commander, Sankru will be the deciding factor in this newest alliance. They pose the strongest resistance. We must encourage their cooperation in accepting Ingranrona into the Coalition or the alliance will fail.”

Lexa stands with a tiresome sigh and descends the stairs from her dais to stand beside Marcus. “Walk with me, Marcus kom Skaikru. We have filled this room with enough hot air for one day.”

She leads the way into the corridor but suddenly wishes to be free from the Tower walls. Lexa was not meant to be confined behind brick and stone. It has been an adjustment for how often she now finds herself encased in these walls and cut off from the trees and wind. Marcus follows alongside her without questioning. No one dares to question Heda.

A flash of angry, insistent blue shoots through her conscious and Lexa must correct the statement. _Almost_ no one dares to question Heda.

They have cleared the main entrance of Polis Tower into fading sunlight and brisk temperatures before Lexa speaks. Her frozen breath hangs in the air as she says, “The people of Desert Clan were most affected by the Ingranrona alliance with Ice Nation due to proximity of their territories. Their hesitation is understandable for how brutally their people have suffered.”

“I didn’t realize. Perhaps a gentler approach with them is necessary,” Marcus suggests quickly.

“We must be willing to show compassion, but empathy should not be misconstrued as weakness. Plain Riders _will_ be admitted into the Coalition with the support of all existing clans.” She has set her sights on the cooperation of all existing clans to join her Coalition and refuses to accept anything less. Despite the setbacks they have seen from naysayers of Floudonkru and a few others, she will not be deviated from completing her agenda as Heda. Lexa draws to a halt beside a row of flowering trees which have already lost all their leaves, folds her hands behind her back, and turns to face Marcus. “I trust you will see to this.”

His posture immediately straightens at Lexa’s direction, all sense of uncertainty vanishing in a breath. He does not possess the rigidity of Indra, but Marcus is devoted and trustworthy—a valuable component to the strengthening of her Coalition. He is personable and kind but firm in his beliefs. He has served her well since arriving in Polis just after her Ascension.

“Of course, Commander. I won’t let you down. We will secure the vote that puts Plain Riders among your people.”

Lexa nods, satisfied. Marcus, of course, is also a valued source of specific information. She should probably leave better alone, but it has been a long day and resistance to her curious impulses has been weakened by fatigue. “Clarke came to see me today. I had not been made aware that other members of Skaikru had arrived to Polis.”

“A surprise to me too.” Marcus’s face brightens at the change in topic. “She’s apparently traveled here from the southern territories with a man called Lincoln, who is not from the Ark.”

“Lincoln is Floukru,” Lexa provides. “I know of him.” It had not been one of Luna’s trade ships that brought Clarke here then. Lexa refuses to allow her chest to swell in relief.

“Even Abby wasn’t aware of Clarke’s arrival,” Marcus adds.  

Lexa digests the information with a singular nod. “In the future, I prefer to be made aware of an audience before being ambushed by them in my own corridors.”

“Yes, of course, Heda. I apologize for the misstep. Clarke just seemed—” he catches himself before devolving into personal affairs and bows his head deferentially. “It doesn’t matter. It won’t happen again.”

“The delegation from Ingranrona are scheduled to arrive in less than two days. I trust you will be ready to receive them.”

“Absolutely. Indra and I have already begun a coordination of our efforts.”

“I have other matters on which to attend at the moment. You will inform me of any further setbacks with Sankru’s ambassador, but I believe your persuasion will ultimately be successful, Marcus.”

“Mochof, Commander.”     

At Marcus’s departure, Lexa expels a long breath and turns to her personal guard, Sarak and Ryder, whom she is rarely without, particularly in Octavia and Anya’s absence. They have both remained with a contingent of warriors in Podakru territory to ensure further protections for the people there, and Lexa has stopped to question the decision many times. Today, considering the unexpected and mysterious nature of Clarke’s arrival, she has never been more grateful for Anya and Octavia's distance.

“When do I have my next meeting?”

“Ada will be in your quarters when we return to the Tower,” Sarak answers easily. Lexa counts herself lucky that she has found a pleasant compatibility with her guard for how often they are in each other’s company.

“Let us walk the perimeter before going back inside,” Lexa suggests, still needing the cold air and light wind on her face and in her lungs. She longs for the trees and night sounds of her youth which can no longer be accessed from within Polis walls. For now a short walk will have to do.

“Sha, Heda,” Ryder nods as they set off around the base of Polis Tower.

:::

There is no time for Clarke the following day, nor the day after that. When a third day has nearly passed, it is Clarke who finds her. To no one’s surprise, least of all Lexa’s, Clarke’s mood has turned foul and her patience has worn thin at having been made to wait.

She stalks after Lexa as she enters Polis Tower, flanked by Sarak, Ryder, and her most valued adviser. Ada is a towering woman with a kind face and long, dark hair. She has advised every Heda for many seasons, and the breadth of her knowledge alone would make her a powerful Commander had she been born within a different bloodline. Lexa does not bother to stop Clarke from encroaching on her small retinue, and only the slightest glance to Ryder and Sarak indicates they are not advised to lay a hand on her either. Ada looks rightfully concerned at Clarke’s irritated proximity to her, but Ada is often wary of the women who find themselves in Lexa’s company.

“I don’t have time to just sit around all day, waiting for you to clear your schedule, or whatever. Lincoln and I only planned for a week’s layover in Polis, and you delay our work by refusing to see me.”

“You assume I have control over my schedule in the first place, let alone the power to clear it.” Lexa’s long coat swishes against the cold cement and stone as they enter the main doors of the Tower.

“Please. You’re the _Commander,_ ” Clarke scoffs, already so defiant Lexa can only imagine the horror on Ada’s face as she walks alongside them.

“It is precisely because of my status that I am often powerless to do as I please. You have not been kept waiting by any choice of my own, Clarke.”

“Well, whatever the reasons or whoever is responsible, I’m done waiting.”

Lexa pauses just outside the lift doors, turning to find Clarke’s petulant frown and arms crossed high over her chest. Lexa is not often caught in fleeting recollections of her past, but it is not difficult to conjure a similar image of a younger Clarke arguing her opinions and surrounded by trees.

She looks away, exasperated to be adding yet another detail to her schedule despite Clarke being somewhat favorable company. On occasion. “If it cannot wait, you may speak with me while I ready for dinner.”

Ada is quick to interject as Lexa expected she would. “Heda—”  

“Ada, please have the kitchens seat you at my table tonight so we may continue our discussion on altering trade routes.”

Ada nods silently in response, but her gaze follows Clarke with no small amount of suspicion as she leaves their company. Her mentor will certainly have questions for her later, and Lexa suspects they will not all be surrounding trade routes. She steps into the lift, followed by Ryder and Sarak, who wait patiently by its entrance for Clarke to board.

Lexa raises an eyebrow. “Clarke?”

She backs away by a step or two, looking warily at the three of them before her eyes scan the structure itself. “Oh, I’ll um, take the stairs.”

Sarak looks to Clarke then back to Lexa with her eyebrows raised. “It is several hundred stairs to my quarters within the Tower,” Lexa informs her.

“Yeah. It’s okay. I’ll meet you up there,” Clarke answers, still backing away from the lift as if Ryder might apprehend her at any moment and force her to board.

Sarak just barely manages to conceal her amusement and disbelief, craning her head outside the lift doors as Clarke makes her hasty exit. Even Lexa must admit to the humor in Clarke’s mistrust of a hundreds-year-old, well-maintained pulley system when she once trusted a large metal box to keep her afloat in space.

:::

It is not uncommon for Lexa to have women in her room. Tradition alone dictates that Heda be tended upon by any number of handmaidens, tailors, and advisers, many of whom are women. Not that Lexa hasn’t entertained women in her personal quarters for other reasons. Prior to marching west on Azgeda, Lexa slept with several women. Handmaidens and warriors. A baker at one point, who smelled of freshly ground cinnamon. The mystical allure of Heda has always produced a rampant following who seek an intimate audience, and Lexa has found she must expel very little energy to arrange any number of bedmates.

There is no such pretense for Clarke’s visit to Lexa’s room, but that does not stop Lexa’s pulse from racing beneath the surface of her practiced calm as they enter.

She immediately begins unbuckling clasps, gradually removing the heavier trappings of her status. It has been another long day of strategizing, negotiating, and diplomacy. If she doesn’t collapse from fatigue during the next hour, despite Clarke’s presence, it will be a miracle.

Most of the furniture filling Lexa’s room is from Before, and Clarke has chosen a seat on the dark blue settee which faces the windows, its armrests worn threadbare and no longer blue. It is somewhat surprising that she has chosen to sit at all as Clarke is often prone to restlessness.

Her limbs may be momentarily stationary, but Clarke’s mind never is. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“You are imposing on my very limited personal time, Clarke. Perhaps you could at least be more specific?” She is too exhausted for barbed exchanges, and even her glib response falls flatly to the floor between them.

“Nightbloods are _dying_ , Lexa. And, you didn’t tell me.”

Lexa tosses her pauldron onto a nearby table. It hits the surface with a clang as its red sash cascades to the floor. She had not been expecting Clarke to come to her with this, yet given their history, it does not surprise her. “I suppose I have Luna to thank for this latest Natblida revelation.”

“This isn’t about Luna.”

Lexa spins her head to view Clarke over her shoulder and raises an eyebrow. “Isn’t it?”

“This is about Maia and Zara and Aden. This is about the hundreds of Nightbloods out there that we don’t even know about. I’m worried for them, Lexa. _All_ of them.” Clarke pauses, as if she is keeping herself from saying anything more.

When Lexa finally turns towards her, it is with a heavy sigh. “You worry about things that you cannot control.”

“You don’t know that,” Clarke argues. “You don’t know that this is incurable.”

“You are constantly driven to fix everything, undeniably an admirable trait for fisa. But, my Natblida siblings and I are not something to be healed, Clarke. The blood will run its course, and then my fight will be over.”

Clarke folds her arms over her stomach and leans back into the settee, fixing Lexa with a familiar look of defiance. “Yu gonplei ste odon? Well, I call bullshit.

“Of course you do,” Lexa responds with an eye roll, moving closer to the leather chair that is positioned across from the settee.

There is a clasp along her right shoulder blade that she clumsily reaches for with her left hand. She has dismissed her usual handmaiden who assists with these tasks, and Lexa wonders if she might be forced to ask Sarak for help removing her armor, who stands guard outside her door.  

“You’re so willing to accept your fate, but you won’t even try to seek alternatives.”

“I remain preoccupied by unifying multiple clans and growing peace within the established Coalition. I do not have the time for frivolous pursuits.”

Clarke takes the pointed insult with a tense jaw and chilling glare. “You prioritize a goal of peace that you won’t see realized within your lifetime if you ignore this.” She takes a deep breath to relax her posture. “The work Lincoln and I have been doing has already revealed so much, and we’ve only just started.”

Lexa continues to struggle, growing more irritated by Clarke’s insistence as the hinge on her clasp remains stubbornly out of reach. “What is it that you expect from me?”

“Your cooperation. Your support. If we’re going to make any kind of real difference, I need—we need you to be on board. Your approval of our study would give us a real platform, particularly here in Polis. To have Heda’s backing would encourage more Natblida to participate and seek treatment.”

“A treatment that, I assume, you do not yet have.” Lexa’s jaw clenches in frustration as the clasp again slips.

Clarke is up and moving towards her before Lexa has time to react, which is concerning on many levels, not least of which because her reflexes have been sharpened precisely to prevent these types of advancements on her personal space.

“Miya,” Clarke exhales, already grabbing onto Lexa’s upper arms with an exasperated familiarity. She spins Lexa around so that she can access the buckles and clasps at her back, and Lexa finds that any resistance to being handled in this way falls dormant under Clarke’s fingertips. “We won’t uncover any viable treatment options until we’re able to test a comprehensive sampling of night blood and dissect its contents. It’s why we’re here in the first place.” Clarke works the clasps and buckles easily, and the leather guards across Lexa’s chest and stomach begin to loosen. “Lincoln and I have traveled for months, collecting our first batch of blood samples. It’s not a lot, but it’s a start. We think there could be medical equipment from Before here in the city, which we desperately need if we’re going to figure this out.”

Lexa slides out of her lighter armor and slowly turns to face Clarke, who has stepped away if not by much. Clarke’s eyes are always so much bluer than she is capable of remembering between their times apart. Lexa blinks. “I will not stop you from pursuing this, Clarke, but I cannot sanction your research either.”

“Why not? Why won’t you support this?”

“I know that you do not agree, but I believe in the teachings.” Lexa presses on despite Clarke’s exaggerated eye roll. “The blood is as much a privilege as it is a burden, but it is mine to bear, and you need to accept that.”

Clarke immediately takes back the scant space she had given her, and Lexa clenches the worn leather between her hands to keep from flinching at her sudden proximity. “Like hell I do. This is not just about you, Lexa. There are hundreds of other lives at stake, and hundreds more to lose if we don’t find a treatment.”

“We are each born with limitations. You cannot stop this.” Lexa’s voice is low and measured, her eyes fixed to Clarke’s.

“You limit yourself!” Clarke yells, not loud enough to alert Sarak but still elevated in a way that Lexa is not used to being addressed. “All because of these ancient, narrow-minded teachings—”

“The _teachings_ are who am I and have served as a foundation for my people as well as each Heda before me. We have survived by these beliefs for many generations.” Lexa’s voice is a warning, hard and sharp as iron.

Clarke sighs, closing her eyes briefly as her fingers rake through her hair. She is frustrated, and she is not alone. When she speaks again, her tone is much softer, as worn and as tired as the argument they spin.

“Your beliefs are allowed to shape who you are without dictating your entire identity. The teachings are a guide, but they aren’t _you,_ Lexa. You’re flesh and blood and bone.” Clarke reaches for her wrist, and Lexa does flinch then—the touch as sudden as it is soft. She turns her hand so that Lexa’s palm faces up. Clarke’s thumb runs along her pulse, and Lexa’s fingers curl inward. “These things that make you who you are aren’t set in stone. The teachings may be rigid, but _you_ are malleable.”

Lexa’s pulse thrums beneath Clarke’s fingers. Under Clarke's penetrating gaze, she struggles to steady her voice. “I cannot change who I am.”

“I’m not asking you to.” Clarke drops the light hold she had on Lexa’s arm, and it falls limply to her side. “I just want you to consider the possibility that your blood doesn’t have to be a death sentence.”

There is a foot between them, maybe less. Lexa considers Clarke’s pleading eyes, her furrowed brow, her down-turned mouth. And then, she says with as much composure as she has ever scraped together, “I’m sorry, Clarke, but you have my answer.”

Clarke’s face hardens again, jaw set as she exhales a tired breath through her nose. “And, it’s the wrong one.” She excuses herself without another word, returning to the door of Lexa’s room and reaching for the handle before pausing again. She watches Lexa from over her shoulder. “If the survival of her people is truly Heda’s greatest honor, then you dishonor the Nightbloods by refusing to consider this.”

:::

Clarke’s accusation sits heavy on her chest for a week. Lexa’s mind is weighed down by thoughts of her brothers and sisters—of Aden and Beth and the smaller ones who have already grown too quickly. A part of her knows that Clarke's argument is valid, but she cannot quiet a louder voice that discourages her from questioning her beliefs. Still, Clarke’s words ring in her ears long after she and Lincoln have left Polis. Marcus had notified her immediately of the departure, and Lexa had been grateful for the report as much as she had felt the sting of disappointment that Clarke had not sought her out again before leaving.

“Thoughts outside of these impending battle plans are plaguing you, Heda.”

Ada is not a professed clairvoyant, though that has never stopped Lexa from feeling as if she has often crawled inside her head and sifted through her private thoughts. She looks away from the window in front of which she stands, surveying the city from far above the ground. She meets with her mentors daily, Ada most of all, and her calming presence is often a welcome reprieve to all the intensity of strategizing as they prepare to march north in just under three weeks.

“Old haunts,” Lexa says vaguely. She wonders what Ada might think about Clarke’s interest in Natblida, in her scientific inquiries. She suspects that Ada has quite a few thoughts on Clarke in general. “Is inquiry still valid if it questions the very teachings that support it?”

Ada’s mouth shifts into a subtle curve, never quite a smile. “Cryptic inquiry has never suited you, Heda.”

Lexa sighs, returning her gaze to the window. There are glass panes in many of the Tower windows, this one in particular is frosted over in its corners from the cold air at such a height. “Death is not a battle to be fought,” Lexa recites. “Should this not apply to the eventual consequences of the blood in my veins?”

“Death will come for us all,” Ada answers calmly, her voice soothing even on such a morose subject. “To fight against it is as futile as warring against the rising sun or changing tides.” She pauses for a quiet stretch, and Lexa feels herself deflate at having her beliefs confirmed. “This is not to say that finding yourself atop a precarious mountainside, one should simply step off the ledge to her death if safe passage presents itself.” Lexa turns to face Ada as the implications roll over her. “We must accept that death is inevitable, but that does not make it entirely unavoidable.”          

:::

Word of the attack reaches Lexa two days before her forces are set to leave Polis for the Ice Nation border. The village that suffered this most recent attack is small and virtually defenseless. Azgeda could hardly have sought out a less threatening community, and Lexa understands it for what it is: a message. A taunting challenge. Queen Nia provokes her within a day’s travel of Polis, and Lexa’s anger subsumes her in a white hot rage long before Indra brings an updated report to the war room.

“Clarke kom Skaikru and Lincoln kom Floukru were also in the village.” Lexa’s head snaps up from the long, wooden table over which she surveys a land map, and Indra grinds her jaw before continuing with the brunt of the news. “A Natblida’s life has been taken, Heda—sacrificed brutally within the village itself before Azgeda gona fled like cowards.”

Lexa nearly shakes with the force of her anger, hands clenched along the table’s edge to steady her voice. “Who was the Natblida?”

“A gada. She was not yet twelve winters, Heda.”

Lexa pushes off the table, letting a hand settle onto the rounded hilt of her knife and grasping for composure. She will have the heads of every Azgeda warrior responsible for this put on pikes. She will slit their throats and slowly gouge their guts. “And the other villagers?”

“Sixteen dead in all. Men, women, and yongon.”

Lexa swallows. “And the healers?” She will not call Clarke by name, unable to predict the way her voice would betray her in fear of Indra’s response.

“Clarke and Lincoln remain in the village, caring for survivors of the attack.”

“Ready the horses,” Lexa commands, already making a brisk exit. “We leave for Severn immediately.”   

:::

She has dismounted prior to their arrival at the small settlement, approaching its meager gathering of tents and small, wooden structures on foot as Sarak leads her horse. Severn is much more compact than Lexa had remembered—a plot of developed land which sits not far off from a narrow river that feeds into the Great Bay. They are nestled in thick, quiet forests here. A quaint but thriving village of peaceful Trigeda. Lexa has seen much destruction, too much devastation in her short time as Commander, but something about the wreckage of this particular community wedges itself like a knife between her ribs.

As Lexa walks, people call out to her. They shout prayers and proverbs. They emerge from tents and gather around fire pits murmuring _Heda, Heda, Heda._

Lexa’s face is stone, her eyes hardened and hid behind the markings of her status. The Commander’s black mask represents many things—today it feels like a symbol of the tears she will not shed for these people. Her people.

 _To mourn is futile;_ Heda must not linger on her emotions but use them to exact justice for such atrocities. Sixteen lives. One Natblida. All deserving of so much more than Lexa was able to provide.

“Heda,” Indra approaches from her left side followed by another woman. “The leader of Severn wishes a word.”

“Heda,” the woman bows deferentially, and Lexa waves her forward. “Ai laik June kom Trikru. These people, your people, are also my own.”

“Your losses will not be forgotten, nor will we fail to bring swift justice to those who are most deserving.”

“Mochof, Heda. We are honored by your leadership. Tonight we burn the bodies of those who were lost, returning them to the tof.”  

“I will stay to observe the ceremony, but then we must march onward,” Lexa informs her. “Their fight is now over, but ours is not.” June bows again, looking relieved despite her visible exhaustion. Survival is often such a tiresome act. “I would like to speak with any remaining family of the young Natblida who was lost, but first I need to speak with your visiting fisa.”

June nods quickly, ushering Lexa and her guards forward with an outstretched arm. “This way, Heda.” The settlement is not large and within moments they have stopped outside of a smaller canvas tent, fires built on either side to keep its occupants warm. “They have been working tirelessly on the wounded as our own fisa suffered a blow to her head and has not yet woken.” June shares, not moving to enter the tent ahead of her Commander.

Lexa turns to her retinue. “Indra, send scouts into the woods to determine the direction that these deplorable Azgeda gona fled. Sarak, have Ryder direct a hunting party to bring back enough kill for the village. You will stand guard here while I confer with the fisa, and our remaining gonakru should set up camp for the night. Provide one of our larger tents to anyone who has lost their home.”

With their orders received, the warriors scatter and June pulls back the opening for Lexa to enter. It is warmer inside if by only a few degrees—in part from the fires and tent walls blocking the wind, but also because of its many occupants. Beds and cots have been set up in every available space, and people crowd together for warmth on the ground where surfaces are no longer available. Lexa’s keen eyes scan the wounded, victims of all ages and in all degrees of injury, but it is not long before her eyes land on a familiar head of bright yellow hair.

Clarke is bent over a small boy and cannot see Lexa from this angle, but Lincoln spots her and June as they enter. “Heda.” His voice is soft and his features calm as he wipes his bloodied hands on a towel. He approaches them with slow confidence, though he seems to lack the brash arrogance of his sister. He places a warm hand onto June’s shoulder and squeezes once. “We have lost lives, but we have saved many more.”

“It was good of you to stay, Lincoln,” Lexa tells him. “These people will survive because of your aid.”

“Clarke never would have allowed us to leave.” Lincoln casts a quick glance over his shoulder where Clarke still works to wrap a boy’s leg against a wooden splint. “She fought for hours to save Mina, the Natblida, refusing to admit she could not be saved.” Lincoln grinds his jaw, and Lexa can practically see the dark memory flash in his eyes. “The damage done to her was … significant, Heda.”

“The blood lost here will not be without consequence. Jus drein jus daun.”

“Jus drein jus daun,” June echoes in reverence.

Lincoln does not repeat the phrase but nods instead. No doubt his upbringing as Floukru in a peaceful, seaside village has influenced his perspectives on the notion of _blood must have blood_. It is no surprise to Lexa that some choose to separate themselves from the idea, but in light of attacks such as this one, she has never before felt such a desire to see the justice of jus drein jus daun carried out.

Lexa watches Clarke finish with the boy only to turn and begin tending to another of the wounded. She wipes her brow with the back of her hand and rubs briefly at her temple. Lexa does not take her eyes off of her while asking Lincoln, “Has she rested?”  

“Not in days,” he sighs. It is the resignation Lexa recognizes of someone who has tried to tell Clarke what to do and failed miserably.

Lexa nods once, returning her attention to Lincoln. “You will send Clarke to my tent at her earliest convenience.”

“I will tell her you have asked for her,” Lincoln responds noncommittally, and Lexa would be more affronted by his lack of respect if she did not know Clarke’s stubbornness so well.  

:::

The hunting party has returned, and Lexa has been briefed by several members of the Severn community about the attack, as well as conferred with Indra on her own investigations by the time Clarke arrives at her tent.

“Leave us,” Lexa commands, and Sarak files out of the tent behind two other guards who had been setting up braziers and arranging furs and blankets across Lexa’s bed.

Clarke stands before her looking haggard, dark circles beneath her blue eyes and shoulders sagging. Lexa can see the strain in her posture and the days of fatigue weighing her down.

“Why did you come here?” Clarke’s voice scratches, but it is not the pleasant rasp that Lexa has always enjoyed.

 _To see you with my own eyes,_ she does not say.

Despite the assurances from Indra’s reports, a worry had lodged deep into Lexa’s gut that Clarke was not alive and well. That she had, in fact, encountered a deathly blade, or spear, or poisonous arrow amid the attack. That she was not working selflessly to heal the others as all accounts had relayed. That Lexa would never again—

“A Natblida was killed.”

“I know, I was here. She laid under my hands as she took her last breath,” Clarke chokes out. “Since when do you care that Nightblood lives are lost?”

Her voice carries a surprising amount of vitriol for how Clarke’s body sways with exhaustion, and Lexa sighs. “I did not ask you here for a fight, Clarke.”

“Then why am I here? I have more work to do, and you’re wasting my time.”

“You cannot care for others without first caring for yourself.”

“I’m fine,” Clarke growls, hands clenched into fists at her side.

The tent is not small, but in Clarke’s company it suddenly feels stifling. Having forfeited one of her larger tents, the space of this one feels shrunken for all the extra items crammed into it, not to mention the sheer size of Clarke’s anger. Lexa takes one, measured step forward, placing her hand along the back of a chair. She motions to a second chair with her other hand.

“I would like to ask you about the attack before you return to your duties. I want you to tell me about Mina,” Lexa clarifies, keeping every ounce of command from her tone. She is asking Clarke a favor, not giving her a demand. “Please.”

Clarke scowls in hesitation but eventually shuffles forward, nearly collapsing into a chair. Lexa sits gracefully across from her. A low table between them holds a steaming pot of tea and two cups. She pours the tea into each cup, offering one to Clarke who continues to scowl but does not shove the tea away nor throw it in Lexa’s face. It is a start.

“What do you want to know?”

There is virtually nothing left to tell. Lexa has already heard multiple accounts of the brutal beating, the gut-wrenching torture that eventually took this Natblida’s young life. She wishes she did not know as much as she does. The images, even relayed second hand, will haunt her.

She wants to know less of Mina’s death specifically and more about the effects it is having on Clarke. “How are you feeling?”

This surprises Clarke, and she is either too tired or does not care enough to hide it. “I’m fine,” she answers, though her voice shakes more noticeably than it had the first time.

“You were raised in TonDC during a time of relative peace,” Lexa continues cautiously. “I do not know of your travels since leaving Topeke Cape, but I imagine you have not witnessed much death. Certainly not to this degree of violence.”

Clarke looks away, jaw set in anger even as she blinks back tears and her hands shake against her legs. “She was young. Really young. Her face was—and she wasn’t even the youngest lost.” Clarke’s fingers claw at her thighs; they are still stained red. “The men and women who took these lives were just—I’ve never seen anything like that. Crazed, ruthless, inhumane acts of slaughter. And, for what? These are a quiet, peaceful people who provoke no one, and now—” a loud, broken sob escapes her, and Lexa clenches her hands into fists to stop an impulse to offer comfort.

“Clarke.” She says only her name, and nothing of any substance follows.

“They were just kids, Lexa. Kids who—” Clarke rubs the heels of her palms into her eyes to stem her tears, but another loud sob breaks into the tent. “And, I couldn’t—”

This time Lexa moves in her chair, leant towards Clarke with her elbows resting on her knees. “You are not expected to save every life. Even the most innocent cannot escape death.”

“I could have done more. I _should_ have done more.”

Something occurs to Lexa as she watches Clarke crumble before her, and some ancient memory still leaves a residual throb of pain in her chest from her own experience.

“Clarke, is this the first that you have seen of death on the ground?” Clarke does not answer, does not remove her hands from her eye sockets, does not calm her wracking sobs. “Clarke.” Lexa swallows, poised to reach across the small table between them and place a hand on Clarke’s knee.

“I need to go.” Clarke jumps up from her seat so suddenly, Lexa is left with one hand suspended uselessly above the table.

She is nearly to the tent flaps when Lexa steps into her path. “Clarke, you need to rest.”

“No, Lincoln needs me—he’ll never manage all those people on his own and,” she grinds her teeth, pressing against Lexa’s abdomen. “I will _not_ lose another life.”

“ _I_ need you,” Lexa says, alarmed by her own desperation, and this is what finally penetrates Clarke’s haze of determination. She stops herself from pushing past Lexa’s frame and stares for a long breath until Lexa swallows and calms her voice to something more neutral. “I need you to be well, Clarke. For these people. You are no good to them in this state. You have done much, but you cannot continue this way without putting yourself and others in danger.”

“Get out of my way,” Clarke demands, but the fight has nearly gone out of her.

Lexa stands her ground, wondering to what lengths Clarke will actually go to try and move her. For as long as she has known her, Clarke’s determination has been boundless.

Lexa squares her shoulders. “No.”

There is a momentary struggle, Clarke shoving against her futilely, though nothing to a degree that would alert Sarak’s concern and prompt her intervention. Lexa withstands Clarke’s weakened efforts for quick seconds, but then Clarke is no longer pushing against her and instead collapses into her. Fingers clutch to her clothes as Clarke’s head falls against Lexa’s sternum with a heavy thump. She cries again, loud angry tears against Lexa’s chest, and Lexa remains entirely still like a brittle statue. Her empathy is so rarely expressed by physical affection that Lexa’s movements are first stiff and unsure, her arms clumsily folding around Clarke’s back without knowing how or where to touch. At the first brush of contact, the rest of Clarke’s frame folds in on itself, trusting the strength of Lexa’s arms to hold her together.

They stand in silence for several long seconds, Clarke’s quieting sobs into Lexa’s shirt the only sounds in the tent besides the intermittent crackling of the two lit braziers near the bed. Lexa closes her eyes and exhales, chasing away her uncertainties over how many mistakes she has likely made in the past twenty minutes.

When it seems that Clarke has gotten through the worst of her tears, hands going slack against the material of Lexa’s shirt, Lexa loosens her hold as well. She allows her hands to slide across Clarke’s shoulder blades and down the length of her back—a delicate, indulgent gesture.

“Miya,” she says quietly. She finds Clarke’s hand with one of her own, and gently guides her away from the tent flaps.  

Clarke does not answer, nor does she resist. She goes easily, following the soft command without question. Lexa can only imagine how plagued with exhaustion she must be to have finally relinquished control. She guides Clarke to the bed, encouraging her to sit before retrieving a cup of tea. Lexa stands before her where Clarke slumps on the thick furs which cover the thin bed roll beneath. She accepts the tea, keeping her head down.

“I have matters on which to attend, but you may rest here. You will not be disturbed.”

Clarke is quiet still, hands loosely cupping the tea which has lost all its steam. It is perhaps the longest she has ever been in Clarke’s company without hearing her speak. Clarke takes small, consecutive sips of the tea until it is gone, handing it off to Lexa when she is through. As Lexa turns to replace the cup to the wooden table, Clarke begins wordlessly removing her boots. Lexa feels suddenly anxious and helpless at the sight—having extended a rather intimate offering to Clarke without any forethought of its implications. There is little time for deliberation as Clarke finishes her task and looks up to meet Lexa’s gaze.     

She watches Lexa for three slow blinks and then lies back, resting her head onto one of many short rolls of soft fabric used as pillows when Lexa travels. “Mochof,” she says, hardly audible.

Lexa nods, her own voice momentarily lost. Sleep will come quickly, Clarke’s body already slackening against the furs and her eyes drooping. Lexa should make her exit quickly but finds herself moving forward instead, tugging at the large woolen blanket near Clarke’s feet. She drapes it over her legs, stopping her hand from resting on Clarke’s waist for longer than it takes to secure the blanket.

She looks up where she is crouched beside the bed to find Clarke watching her. Lexa draws her hands away and clears her throat. “Will you be warm enough?”

Clarke’s hand moves against the furs in Lexa’s direction but stops just before reaching her fingertips. Her face does not change, but Lexa can almost hear her tired smile when she says, “Are you ever going to stop trying to take care of me?”

They have both made allowances over the years—rare instances of mutual vulnerability. Lexa feels an acute sense of security within these tent walls that she knows is fleeting. She takes a breath and allows her hand to slide forward by inches until her fingers connect with Clarke’s. “I will stop trying when you do the same.”

It is not explicitly true, and Clarke seems to know this by the way she hums in response, finally allowing her eyes to drift shut without reopening. Clarke could very well hate her, wholly despise her, wish her for dead, and Lexa would still be enslaved to a desire to keep her safe.

:::

The geography of Severn had allowed Lexa to alter her original plans, but they cannot delay a departure from the woodland village any longer. Once her forces have descended upon the forests surrounding Severn, they must continue north to the Ice Nation border as planned. For this reason, Lexa has summoned Clarke to speak on the matter of her departure. She waits on her throne in the tent adjacent to her personal quarters. When she had returned the night previous, after having witnessed the pyre lighting ceremony for Mina and the deceased, Clarke had been gone, as Lexa expected she might be. She suspects that the events that transpired between in that tent them may never be spoken about ever again.  

Today Lexa sits in full regalia, the trappings of Heda’s status giving her strength and courage to ride into battle, to face a ruthless and unrelenting adversary; though it does little to quell the nerves in her stomach at seeing a girl she thinks far too much about. Clarke enters behind Sarak who has guided her into the tent only to stand guard at its entrance. Clarke approaches the throne without hesitation, hands stuffed into the pockets of her blue jacket, unimpressed and cavalier. Ryder stands to the left of her, and Lexa halts him with a subtle hand when he moves to search Clarke for weaponry.

Lexa wastes no time with pleasantries. “We leave Severn for the Ice Nation border shortly.”

“How long?”

“No more than an hour. We wait for word from Anya and then we will rejoin our forces just outside the treeline.”

Clarke nods, considering Lexa in a curious way. She looks much better than when Lexa saw her last—healthier and rested. Her face and hair have been cleaned of the dirt and blood that had covered them a day ago. “I’m going with you.”

The blade Lexa had been balancing against the armrest of her throne nearly slips to the floor. She had prepared for yet another terse goodbye. She had not prepared for this. She wonders if the shock still shows on her face, even behind the mask of kohl. Clarke shifts on her feet, the only sign of her wavering confidence.

“I mean, if the offer still stands I’d like to … help. Travel with you—with the fisa. Lincoln, too.”

Lexa chooses her words carefully, heart hammering uncontrollably behind her armor. “You have changed your mind?”

“Maybe,” Clarke shrugs. “I mean, I don’t know how much my opinions on war have shifted, I just—I still think there are more peaceful ways to negotiate with these people, but,” Clarke swallows harshly as if fighting past some creeping emotion. “I had no idea how people were suffering against these kinds of attacks.”

“Contrary to what some might perceive, I have never favored war. But, I must often recognize its inevitability.”

“I know. And you tried to tell me how bad things had gotten elsewhere, I guess I just didn’t want to believe that it was true.”  

“We often struggle to accept that which does not meld with our established perceptions.” Lexa thinks of Ada. Of her teachings. Of the toxic blood that runs through her veins. And, of Clarke’s research. “We would be honored to have you and Lincoln among us.”

Clarke’s shoulders rise and fall as she takes a cleansing breath. “Okay. We'll be ready to leave whenever.”

“I will have Octavia bring you word when the time comes.” Lexa watches the color drain from Clarke’s face, her expression falling blank and hopeless. Lexa only barely manages to keep her lips from curling upwards at Clarke’s horror.

Even the barest tick of amusement at the corner of her mouth has Clarke’s eyes narrowing as she recognizes Lexa’s empty threat. “Yeah, cool. Sounds great. We have loads of catching up to do,” she smirks, calling Lexa’s bluff. She raises her brow after a moment when Lexa fails to respond, spinning on her heels as she says, “I’ll be in the medical tent gathering my supplies if you need me, Heda.”

Lexa watches her go, fingers still deftly spinning the hilt of her knife and fighting a smile until Clarke’s figure is gone. She can sense a buoyancy building in her chest at the thought of Clarke marching with them—a feeling of hope and security at her continued proximity. Lexa presses her lips together as she stands and sheathes her knife, glancing quickly to Ryder who is all but grinning openly at Sarak.

She clears her throat and steps down from the throne. “Shof op, Ryder.”      

:::

“Is this what it looks like when you are not distracted?”

“Hod yu rein daun, Anya.”

“My _place,_ Heda, is to ensure your safety,” Anya counters.

“You sound like Gustus’s echo.”

Their speech hangs in frozen puffs of air—it is already much colder now, and temperatures will only continue to drop the farther north they march. She and Anya ride horses of equal height, surrounded by hundreds of gonakru—countless women and men who have sworn to fight alongside them. It is neither time nor place for discussing personal matters, though that has never stopped Anya before. If it were up to Lexa, discussing her personal life would be forbidden by law.

“We care for your well-being equally.”

“Then I will say to you what I have already requested of Gustus. Protect me from having my head severed by an Azgeda bleirona, but know that my safety is not threatened by any healers in our midst.”  

“She will be a danger to your focus by encountering danger herself. The fisa are as much at risk of death and injury as any gona marching with you.”

Truthfully, Lexa had considered inviting Clarke to ride beside her. To have her in her sights at all times and surrounded by Heda’s most skilled warriors. In the end, she had succumbed to propriety and left Clarke to travel with Nyko, her mother, and the other fisa. She does not share this impulse with her former First and instead says, “Clarke knew of these dangers when she volunteered to join us.”

Anya is quiet for several minutes, but her sidelong glances are indication that she has not relented the discussion entirely. Lexa focuses on the trees and birds instead, on the low murmur of muddled conversations that float around her. Heda’s forces have traveled many miles north of Severn but will likely not reach the border of Azgeda territory before nightfall.   

“When you are fighting for peace, embroiled in battle against Azgeda warriors, will Clarke’s safety not be on your mind?”

Lexa’s jaw tenses and she grips the rough leather of her horse’s reins. She says with an air of shrewd finality, “The protection of _all my people_ weighs on my mind constantly. It is for them we fight. It is for them we seek justice for the crimes of Azgeda. It is for their collective safety that we ride north to put an end to Nia's cruelty.”

She does not say: _Clarke’s safety is on my mind always, whether or not she is in immediate danger._

Anya nods to the setting sun as it dips behind the treeline. “Sheidgeda ste komba raun.” And like that, the inquisition is over.

Lexa looks upward to note the darkening skies and nods to Anya’s observation. Nightfall will be upon them soon. “Tell Indra we will set up camp and cross the border at first light.”

“Sha, Heda.” Anya breaks off from riding beside her in search of Indra, and Lexa releases a long breath.  

:::

Their numbers are sprawling, an encampment of imposing size just south of Azgeda’s border. Indra estimates several thousand under her command, perhaps more. They wait for dawn, and then they march for justice. For peace. Lexa has already seen too much death for her eighteen years—she marches to put an end to senseless killings and perpetual war so that future generations will live differently, peacefully. Her blood ensures that she will never know these generations, but if she must face an early death then her legacy will be freeing her people from the oppression of war and unrest.

Gustus brings her food, and Lexa eats alone. The camp is alive around her, pulsing with energy and excitement. Women and men from multiple clans mix and mingle and eat around campfires to keep warm. An adrenaline courses through her gonakru prior to battle—the impassioned desire to fight for their lives, for their families, for their beliefs. As Heda, Lexa has been primed to yoke this energy. She will be prepared to speak at first light, to invigorate her warriors into battle. As she eats, Lexa thinks on these things, chewing silently and thoughtfully. Her focus is entirely centered and calm, Anya’s previous accusations be damned.

“Heda.” It is Gustus at the entrance to her tent, his broad, lumbering form leant into the flickering light of candles and braziers.

“Enter, Gustus.” She places her cutlery onto the table in front of her and folds her hands into her lap.

“A small faction of Azgeda gona were spotted near the border.”

“We are encroaching on their lands, no doubt they are curious,” Lexa answers smugly.

“Sha, Heda.” Gustus hesitates uncharacteristically. “We have confirmed that Prince Roan rides with them.”

“The Prince of Azgeda rides to his borders and approaches an entire army of enemy warriors? Why?”

“He requests an audience, Heda.”

Lexa does not deliberate. Prince Roan is either a diversion or an opportunity, and she will find out which soon enough. “Bring him to me,” she commands, rising from her chair. Gustus bows and exits the tent.

:::

She has never met Roan, but his reputation precedes him. He has survived her by several winters, though he is still considered young by current standards—often a rebellion to his mother’s regime, it has been rumored that Roan was banished from her kingdom in the north on more than one occasion. Recently, he must have found himself back in her good graces as he comes to Lexa’s tent flanked by two generals of Queen Nia’s army.

Lexa sits on her throne, battle ready. Heda wears dark fabrics, dark armor, a dark mask across her eyes. Lexa’s posture commands authority as Roan saunters towards her with his white furs, long hair, and easy gait. The generals are stopped by Lexa’s own guards, but she allows Roan to approach the throne unhindered. She has never seen him fight but remains confident that her own skills could easily overtake him.

“Prince Roan kom Azgeda, what has led you to wander into enemy territory?”

“I could ask you the same.”

Cocky, arrogant, smug. Lexa almost wishes he were there to attack her just to have an excuse to draw her swords.

“I believe you know why,” she answers evenly.

“We wish to avoid yet another battle.”

“I suggest some forethought then in your continued attacks on my people.” Ice runs through her veins to think on Mina and the broken village of Severn that Roan’s senseless warriors left in their wake. “Is it not the Queen who thrives on bloodshed through her tyrannical rule?”

“I do not come here on behalf of the Queen.”

Lexa, who had been twisting the tip of her favorite blade against the arm of her throne, halts her movements at Roan’s words. She looks to Ryder and Sarak, who have maintained positions near the Azgeda generals. “Gon we.”

This is not a conversation she wishes to have with an audience, and the tent clears in seconds at her command.

“I do not share my mother’s ideals, and there are many more who feel the same, including the generals who travel with me,” Roan shares. “She must be overthrown.”

Lexa raises an eyebrow skeptically. “You wish your own mother dead?”

“I wish her to be removed from power. I imagine whether or not she lives is up to _Heda’s_ good judgement.”

He openly mocks her title and oversight, and Lexa's spine goes rigid. Azgeda, having their own queen and nearly cut off from all other civilizations, have never respected the role of Heda.

Lexa’s jaw ticks. “There are crimes which must be paid for in blood—my people must have justice.”

“My people must have freedom.”

“Then join our Coalition, and your people will know the freedom of peace and prosperity.”

Roan grimaces, his mouth a frowning snarl. “I have no interest in your Coalition, Commander, but I also have no interest in a position of power. A decision to join or not to join will be left to someone else.”

Again, a surprising statement which Lexa must keep from showing in her blank expression. “You do not wish to succeed your mother’s rule?”

“You don’t know me, but I’m not exactly one for diplomacy.”

“And yet, here you stand.”

“I care about my people,” Roan answers solemnly. “Enough to know that I’m not fit to lead them.”

Lexa considers him for a long moment—an arrogant man, exuding a certain air of privilege, who is no less sincere in professing a loyalty to his people. “Who then will replace the Queen?”

Roan shifts his stature defiantly. “Tell me that we will not see your army cross our borders tomorrow, and I will tell you anything you wish to know.”  

“Gustus,” Lexa calls out, and her towering giant of a warrior enters the tent, hand already on the hilt of his broadsword. “Sen Indra and Anya op.”  

:::

“He lies,” Anya growls, pacing the length of a stout war table like an agitated tigress.

“To what end?” Lexa prompts. She has called her two most trusted military advisers into a separate tent, leaving the prince and his generals to wait as they deliberate.

“To initiate the retreat and disassembly of our forces. United we threaten to overcome their army but once the gonakru have returned to their individual territories, we will again be at risk,” Anya suggests.

Lexa leans both hands against the table in front of which Anya paces. She turns her head to her other general. “Indra?”

Indra is entirely still where Anya remains restless, her face hard and unreadable. Lexa awaits her opinion patiently as the quiet stretches. “If war is to be avoided, we must require assurances that further retaliations will not be made against our forces.”

“Roan is an untrustworthy snake,” Anya responds sharply. “Any assurances he makes are of no worth.”

“We will not place faith in our enemies,” Indra clarifies. “We will demand justice. If the Prince of Azgeda wishes to avoid this war, he must deliver those responsible for the attack on Severn and the death of a Natblida.”

“Jus drein jus daun,” Lexa says.

“Jus drein jus daun,” Indra repeats with a definitive nod.

Anya does not appear satisfied. “And to ensure the safety from attacks on other villages?”

“Prince Roan wishes to overthrow the Queen and seems to think he has enough support to see it through, even among her own people.” Lexa stands to her full height, resting a hand onto the hilt of her knife. “Let us see what other information he has to share. If I am able to avoid risking the lives of more of my people while still exacting justice, I am willing to consider other options to war.”

They return to the throne room to address Roan as a unit—Anya skeptical and skulking, Indra silent and imposing, and Lexa the unwavering Commander on the throne. He agrees to deliver the members of Azgeda who attacked Severn by morning. Thirty lives in all were responsible, he says. In return, he wants a good faith agreement that Coalition forces will not cross the border, but Lexa is not finished with her demands.

“I need more than the indeterminate promise of a coup against your Queen.” Lexa sits casually draped against her throne, Anya and Indra posted on either side while Roan stands before her. “Words alone mean very little coming from a clan who have tormented Heda’s people for generations.”

“Ontari kom Azgeda.”

The name makes Lexa shift in her seat, hairs tingling at the base of her neck. “Natblida.”

“Sha. She will dethrone the Queen and succeed her rule.”

Lexa’s eyes cut briefly to Anya. “Sadgeda,” she supplies, and Anya grinds her jaw as recognition clicks into place. “Suggesting that the novitiate I defeated in the final round of Sadgeda wishes to overthrow her queen and establish peaceful relations does carry the stench of suspicion.”

“What can I say?” Roan smirks. “Ontari loathes my mother more than she hates you for besting her to Ascension.”

“A desperate bushhada at the brink of war that he is sure to lose will say anything,” Anya warns.

“I am not a coward any more than I am a liar. There is little left for me to lose by coming here. I guess you’re just going to have to trust me.” Roan makes the grave mistake of winking in Anya’s direction, and it is merely the smallest gesture of Lexa’s hand that stands between Anya’s short sword and the end of his life.  

“There is no trust between our peoples, I can assure you. But I do not wish to engage in battle that can be avoided if justice is served elsewhere.” Lexa steeples her fingers together in contemplation. “You will deliver to me each of the lives responsible for the massacre at Severn as well as those who took my predecessor’s life in Bow several seasons ago.”

“That wasn’t part of the agreement,” Roan argues, his smarmy grin having vanished at Lexa’s words.

“I’ve changed my mind. You will bring me the thirty warriors by first light and the others responsible for taking Heda’s life in a week’s time, or else we march on Azgeda.” Roan grinds his jaw, and Lexa continues. “After you have delivered the guilty to my people, we will disassemble our forces and return to our lands. A sizeable contingent led by Indra, my highest general, will remain at the border.” She gestures to Indra, and Roan’s eyes follow the movement before returning to the throne. “If so much as one scout, one huntress, one handmaiden is found crossing into these lands, my forces will strike back without mercy. Are these terms understood?”

She has left him no choice, and Roan’s gravelly voice must eventually concede. “Sha. We have an understanding.”

:::

Lexa stands before her masses on a hilltop. Her voice will not be heard from the far reaches of the encampment, but her speech will disseminate, trickling to its outer edges until each warrior has heard her words. The sky above is a greying light, and the ground beneath her feet bears a light frost. Her breath hangs in white puffs of air.

“We will not march on Azgeda today.” A collective groan ripples through the crowds, shock and anger at this unexpected declaration. Lexa must only raise a hand, and the warriors again quiet. “We will not march into battle, but we will have justice. The Prince of Azgeda has delivered to us those responsible for the attack on Severn—the guilty stand before me now.”

The thirty Ice Nation warriors who carried out a brutal massacre on her people kneel with their heads bowed, bound and awaiting execution. The crowds again erupt into noise, which Lexa allows as her words carry through the ranks. She sees a diverse people. She sees the colors and markings of varied clans, brought together by a universal cause: peace and justice.

Humanity. Survival. Unity.

“We stand here today a united people of the ground. We are no longer simply defined by our individual clans. We stand here a product of the ground’s ashes, caused by a civilization determined to destroy it. To destroy us. We stand here a resilient people that refused to be eliminated then and continue to uphold that resistance to this day.” Her voice booms strong and loud and fierce.

“Our independent survival on the ground has for so long separated us, but no more. Let us not forget the differences that define us, but let us no longer allow them to divide us. Our beliefs teach us that all life is equal—the wolf pup, the gobi nut, the rivers which flow between our lands,” she pauses generously, directing a hand towards the Azgeda on their knees. “Even our northern enemies. No life outranks another. No clan or settlement or people above another. Let us continue to build a collective civilization strengthened by unity and equality. We are one people of the ground from today and onward. We are Grounders. Oso laik Kyongedon.”

She finishes, expelling a breath from the intensity of her speech before the crowds at her feet erupt in shouts, stomping their boots and raising their weapons in solidarity. The audible support reverberates in her ears. She lets her eyes scan the faces in front of her, feeling accomplished and hopeful. She then finds Anya standing off to her left. She does not shout, she hardly moves at all. Still, Lexa can see the pride of her posture, the subtle nod to indicate her support, and Lexa swells to have her there not just as mentor but as family.

The executions are performed by members of the Severn community who marched with them, fulfilling their rights to exact justice for the lives of their community that were lost. The bodies are later burned as is their custom for sisters and brothers of the Coalition as well as those who oppose it. Their ashes will be returned to the ground, giving life to its soil from which other life grows.

 _In every death there is life lost and life gained._    

Following the ceremony, there is much food and drink. For now, they have avoided another costly war, and Lexa can sense her people’s unified relief. The majority of her gonakru will return to Polis where Lexa plans to host a festival in celebration of their new identity: Kyongedon. As Grounders both within and outside of the Coalition, they will continue to seek commonalities between peoples. To build trust and trade. To ensure safe travel between territories. Lexa gathers with her generals to discuss further military strategy, and she mingles with her warriors. She eats well, and she indulges with small sips of wine. And then, Clarke finds her.

“That was quite a speech.”

Clarke looks well. The visible fatigue from her experience at Severn has been replaced by a healthy glow. Clarke also holds a small tin cup, and Lexa wonders if it is the wine that makes her cheeks rosy, the cold air, or the nearby fire.

“You have been informed of its contents?”

Clarke has approached her easily, brushing past Heda’s guard without consequence, though anyone else might employ some precaution in light of Gustus and Ryder and Sarak. Not Clarke. She stands at Lexa’s right side, near enough that they need not raise their voices above the persistent chatter around them.

“I heard it myself. It was—I thought it was incredibly powerful and … beautiful.”

Lexa shows no outward sign of it, but when she turns her head to catch Clarke’s eye, her stomach swoops. “Mochof, Clarke.”

“And you were able to avoid going into battle?”

“For now. Roan must uphold further aspects of our agreement within a week’s time, and the Coalition must always be prepared to fight for the security and safety of all our people.”

“Like Severn.”

Lexa dips her head. “Yes.”

“The things you’ve accomplished in such a short time—it’s really admirable, Lexa.”

“We must make the most of the time we are given.”

“Right.” Clarke watches her with a small, contemplative smile.

She is the first to look away, her gaze returning to the tall, leaping flames before them as she sips her drink. Lexa has forgone a second glass of wine, and the effects of the first have all but faded. Standing beside Clarke in a silence that is heavy with things unsaid, she desperately wishes for another drink. Anya would tell her that craving such indulgences is precisely why she should not be around Clarke to begin with. Lexa no longer bothers with guilt or second-guesses—Clarke makes her want to chase reckless impulses without fear of consequence.  

“Will you return to Polis?”

“I’m not sure,” Clarke sighs. “Lincoln and I had planned to continue our work collecting more samples, but now—” she looks back to Lexa as if weighing her words. “It might be useful to regroup in Polis for a bit, talk with Raven and my mom and formulate a more specific plan. I don’t know.”

“It would be good for you to attend the festival as well,” Lexa says, carefully neutral. “To celebrate along with other members of the Coalition, make connections with the ambassadors into whose lands you plan to travel. Perhaps you will even experience some fun.”

Clarke smiles more fully, and Lexa fights to keep from swaying into her. She raises an eyebrow to ask, “And, is the Commander ever allowed to have any fun?”

A swoop devolves into a low flutter of nerves, but Lexa abstains from letting it show. “Intimidation is difficult to uphold if Heda expresses too much merriment,” she explains in avoidance.

Clarke hums, nodding contemplatively before taking a long sip of wine. Lexa feels incredibly parched, suddenly too warm to be stood this close to the fire. They find themselves in a precarious moment unlike any that has passed between them in years. In between the light banter and knowing looks, Lexa can sense a keen anticipation sparking against the surface of her skin. When Clarke tips her cup to show it’s been emptied and spins to face her, Lexa swallows.

Clarke leans in slowly, close enough that their right shoulders nearly touch before she says very lowly against Lexa's ear, “I guess it’s good I’ve never been particularly intimidated by you then.”

Lexa remains perfectly still, squeezing her fist against the hilt of her knife until Clarke moves away and leaves her with an impish grin. Long after she has gone, Lexa can still feel a warm breath against her ear.

:::

It takes nearly a full week to return to Polis, and Lexa sees Clarke only at brief and infrequent intervals.

She very nearly sighs in relief atop her silver mare when Polis Tower comes into view. Lexa is worn, and she is tired. But she is home, and she has avoided the loss of more lives. They have been riding for hours when she stops to dismount as they approach one of the eastern tributaries of Severn river. They water the horses and stretch their legs. Lexa then seeks out Octavia just before they are set to move again.

“I would like Clarke to join me as we near the city. There are things I wish to discuss prior to our arrival.”

“Sha, Heda.” Octavia’s tone is as deferential as it is entirely skeptical, much like the concern of an old friend. There is no room to question her orders, though—Octavia is first a warrior sworn to the Commander and a childhood friend to Lexa merely a distant second.

Lexa passes the reins of her horse to Sarak, deciding to cross the remaining distance to Polis on foot.

Octavia returns again moments later, and Lexa raises an eyebrow expectantly. “Clarke refused to come with me,” she reports, voice drenched in annoyance. “She said she didn’t believe that it was a legitimate request from you.”    

Lexa keeps her focus on the pinnacle of Polis Tower to keep her face from shifting into something that could be construed as amusement. “Tell her that I require yarrow for a ledon I acquired during yesterday’s travels.”

Octavia, prone to a fair amount of insubordination herself, manages to refrain from rolling her eyes before heading off again, though just. It really is a wonder that she and Clarke do not get on better for how similarly headstrong and independent they can be in the face of authority.

“Permission to speak frankly, Heda?”

“What is it?”

“The fisa who travels with Clarke—who is he?”

“Lincoln kom Floukru. He is brother to Luna,” Lexa informs her through a sidelong glance.  

Octavia nods once or twice but says nothing more. Lexa walks alone for several minutes, and then Clarke joins her at her left side.

“Octavia? _Really_?” Clarke huffs, catching her breath as she falls into stride with Lexa’s moderate pace.

Heda does not engage in playful taunts, but Lexa very much enjoys the scowl on Clarke’s mouth and the way her elbow knocks into Lexa’s arm when her only response is an innocent shrug. “Are you not going to ask about my injury?”

“Wait, are you actually hurt?”

“No,” Lexa answers, and Clarke pushes into her arm again with a scoff that very nearly produces a genuine smile. “I wish to extend an invitation to you, and to Lincoln, while you are in Polis. We have guest quarters within Polis Tower. They are yours if you would like.”

“Oh.”

“You have made plans to stay elsewhere?” Lexa’s pulse races with the anticipation of rejection.

“No, I just—we haven’t decided whether or not we’ll stay at all.” Clarke exhales, pushing her hands deeper into the pockets of her coat. “There’s a lot to be done, and the more we prolong our departure the more lives we put at risk.”

“Of course,” Lexa answers, her playful spirit vanishing at the mention of Clarke’s research. “The offer stands if you decide to stay.”

Clarke nods with a small smile. “Yeah. I’ll think about it.”

:::

Lexa is not particularly fond of large crowds, extravagant festivities, or fanfare of any sort. They are all part and parcel to the city of Polis, of course, and her role within it. The capital often plays host to celebrations, commemorative events, and visiting leaders of various clans. Heda must remain an integral part in these gatherings, to some degree, no matter the occasion.

More often, Lexa would prefer some solitude in the quiet forests; or, at the very least, far less company than she currently finds herself in as the inaugural Kyongedon festival roars around her.

The banquet table at which she sits, beneath a large, sprawling tent, has seen a near constant stream of ambassadors, generals, and other leaders who wish to discuss any number of things, always awaiting eagerly for Heda’s divine perspective. She makes time for all—her leadership is in service to her people—but she is particularly attentive to the yongon, Natblida and common-blood alike, who have braved her table with wide eyes and shy smiles. They offer her a refreshing breath of life, relieved to have their company and answer their babbling questions for a while instead of talking diplomacy and strategy and economics. 

When the sun sets and the music thrums to life and the fire pits burst into flames, Lexa finally takes a long overdue moment for herself. She exits the tent, slipping back into her long, dark coat with the broad collar and fur-lined sleeves. The air is cool, but this winter has been mild. Tall boots and light armor supply much of her warmth even away from the fires where she breathes deeply into the shadows.

Gustus and Sarak linger somewhere nearby but remain completely out of sight. She is granted slightly more unsupervised freedoms to wander alone when they are within the city walls. Though, if it were up to Gustus he would still have her strapped to his back or riding atop his broad shoulders as he did when she was young and precocious and prone to wandering off. Lexa thinks about searching for Clarke, but the crowds are impossibly large and Heda is not afforded the luxury of navigating them innocuously. She could just as easily have her summoned, though Lexa does not know how many more times she can get away with that tactic before Clarke lashes back at her for presuming she will automatically come when beckoned.

“Heda.” Lexa turns her head towards the tent at the sound of Sarak’s voice. “Would you prefer not to be disturbed? There is someone to see you.”

Lexa exhales, a fleeting moment of solitude quickly vanishing, like the smoke from the fires lost to the night sky. “I suppose that it depends on who the someone is.”

“It is Clarke,” Sarak answers with an indecipherable smirk, clearing her throat a second later as if to regain her professionalism. “The Skaikru fisa, Heda.”

“Send her out,” Lexa commands with as much authority as she can muster under the mounting pressure of being left alone in a darkened, semi-secluded pocket of the city with a girl who often makes her do and say things she cannot explain.

There is the quickest moment between Sarak’s exit and Clarke joining her in which Lexa fights a surge of nervous energy by taking a deep, fortifying breath and tilting her head upwards so that she can peer into the starry sky. When Clarke appears, Lexa has resumed her stoic posture and greets her with a subtle nod.

Clarke steps into the relative darkness unsurely. “Hi.”

“Are you enjoying the festivities?” Lexa asks, keeping her hands clasped behind her back and calling on every Commander in her lineage for the strength to keep them there.

Clarke folds her arms across her stomach and regards Lexa skeptically. “This is essentially a celebration in honor of your accomplishments and leadership, but you’re … hiding out here all by yourself?”  

“You have no idea how much my limited solitude is its own celebration,” Lexa sighs.

Clarke’s arms drop to her sides. “Oh, do you want me to—”

“I do not count your presence as a hindrance to my privacy,” Lexa admits, watching Clarke hesitate partway to making an exit while her honest admission hangs in the silence. Lexa could just as easily ask her to stay, but their seclusion makes her feel less bold. 

A small grove of trees separates them from the dancing and music and merriment of a festival in full swing. Lexa can see the light from the flames as it flickers through the trees, and she can hear the music and the singing and the happy voices. They are not alone by any means, though it feels very much as if she and Clarke exist in a moment unto themselves.

“Okay,” Clarke smiles, moving to stand beside Lexa where the distant firelight illuminates her face and hair.

“I believe Octavia has shown a curiosity in Lincoln,” Lexa shares, keeping her eyes towards the glowing patch of trees in front of them to detract from her racing nerves.

“ _Shit_ ,” Clarke groans. “Are you serious?”

“Almost always,” Lexa answers in obvious amusement.

“Ugh. I'll have to have a word with him. He's got to have better taste than that.” Clarke’s mouth is down-turned and her brow furrowed, but she says nothing more.

“How have you been enjoying Polis?” Lexa asks after a prolonged pause, feeling as if she has lost her footing on a damp forest floor with how poorly she is navigating this conversation. She spends a great deal of time longing for these quiet moments with Clarke, only to feel completely inept when they happen. 

“It’s incredible,” Clarke gushes immediately. “I mean, totally overwhelming and a lot to take in all at once, but … it’s so amazing what’s been maintained and reconstructed here over time. Plus, the food is ridiculously good.” She exhales, turning her head towards Lexa before asking, “What about you?”

Confusion momentarily overpowers her nerves and Lexa frowns at Clarke’s earnest face. “What about me?”

Clarke laughs lightly at Lexa’s perplexed scowl. “How do you like Polis?”

It’s been almost two full years since her Ascension, and no one has ever asked. Not the Elders. Not the stall holders. Not Ada. Not Gustus. No one. She very nearly gawks at Clarke’s expectant gaze. “I—I miss the trees.”

Clarke smiles warmly as her shoulder bumps against Lexa’s own. Perhaps intentionally, perhaps not. “Me too.”

“Which is not to say that Polis does not have plenty to offer, including a variety of trees, but the forests surrounding TonDC—”

“I know,” Clarke interjects. “I think about them all the time. I knew them so well.”

A beat passes and then, already anticipating Clarke’s affronted response, Lexa counters, “Or, not so well.”         

“That was _one_ time, and I’m still not convinced you were right about me crossing any supposed borders.”

A smile works its way onto Lexa’s lips, and it feels incredibly foreign after all this time. There have been other moments of joy over the years, but not like this. The smiles produced by Clarke always feel particularly distinct.

“Would you like me to consult the territory maps of the cartography room in Polis Tower?”

“Yes, actually. I would _love_ to see some official evidence.” Clarke resumes her defiant posture, crossing her arms along her stomach and turning to face Lexa more fully.

Lexa spins slowly to mirror Clarke’s stance so that they face one another, her hands still clasped behind her back. The standoff lasts for no more than a few challenging seconds before Sarak again appears. Lexa does not bother to move nor take her eyes from Clarke’s even as Clarke breaks eye contact with a curbed smile and takes a miniscule step backwards.

“Marcus has requested your presence, Heda.”

Lexa clears her throat. “Mochof, Sarak.”

Sarak disappears quickly behind the canvas wall of the tent, but the moment is already broken.

Clarke says, “I should let you—”

“You should stay in the capital, Clarke. Enjoy the festival. Explore the city. If I were able, I would show it to you myself,” Lexa admits through a heavy sigh, looking towards the tent opening as if to illustrate her point. “But, my responsibilities do not allow for much leisure. Still, there is much to be enjoyed within the capital.”

Clarke swallows, her gaze desperate. “Lincoln and I—we leave in the morning.”

“Well, then,” Lexa answers, pressing her lips together briefly to stave off a further reaction. “I hope you will savor the remainder of our celebrations.”

“I am.” Clarke nods. “I mean, I will. Thanks.”

Lexa nods brusquely before making her exit, no longer trusting herself in Clarke’s company with the knowledge of her impending departure.

:::

Official business often keeps Heda awake long into the night—either by way of meetings with long-winded ambassadors or Lexa’s own racing thoughts as a result of so much responsibility. There is nothing official on her mind at the moment, other than that she is officially out of her depth when it comes to Clarke Griffin.

Lexa paces the worn flooring of her room wearing softer clothes. She has removed every article and accessory that indicates her status, unbraided her hair, cleaned her face, and discarded her weapons. Still, the mantle weighs heavy on her shoulders with the knowledge that Heda never acts alone. She carries an entire people with every decision she makes. Even the most personal or insignificant of choices are not hers alone.

She does not want for much, but tonight she longs for a freedom she does not have.  

Lexa approaches the door of her room and pauses, hand resting uncertainly on the door frame. There is also the matter of security. Her personal guard has always felt like an extension of herself—as natural and unobtrusive as her own limbs. Tonight, with her desires pushing her in a certain direction of the Tower, the security that her status demands feels more like a nuisance. Still, Lexa knows what she wants and perseveres. 

Anya is clearly the most harrowing obstacle. She has absolutely no reason to be in the corridors of this particular floor, but that does not stop an irrational fear from running through Lexa’s mind as she navigates her way to the guest quarters. Having to vaguely explain herself to Sarak as she left her room had been trying enough. Encountering Anya’s set jaw and her stern, unwavering gaze would be an insurmountable humiliation.

There are less guards in this part of the Tower, and the late hour precludes any other foot traffic. Still, Lexa moves with purpose, hoping to be away from curious eyes as quickly as possible. She has certainly proceeded into vicious battles with less trepidation than she now feels approaching Clarke’s door.

“Lexa?”

Her hand is poised to knock, but it drops quickly to her side when she hears Clarke’s voice from down the hallway. Lexa turns to see Clarke walking towards her, confused but not displeased. She is wearing her clothes from earlier that evening, and Lexa wonders if she has only just left the festival.

Her mouth opens to respond, but her synapses have slowed and her thoughts lag as Clarke nears and reaches for the door handle.

“Is everything okay?”

“Yes, I only—” She says nothing more, her words choked off as Clarke’s searching gaze lands on her mouth before settling again on Lexa’s eyes.

“Do you want to come in?”

Lexa answers before she can stop to question herself. “Yes.”

Clarke smiles as she enters ahead of her, and Lexa must actively remind herself to breathe with each step. The room is lovely and warm. So much of Polis Tower is constructed of cold stone, and drafts are persistent despite constant improvements to insulate. Lexa has not toured each of the guest rooms individually, but renovations had begun during her predecessor’s command as preparations were made to accommodate more ambassadors and delegates from visiting clans. The room offered to Clarke is smaller than her own, but Lexa is pleased with the space provided to her guest. It is homely and subtly fragrant, and the flames in the fireplace dance off its ceiling and walls.  

“Are you just now returning from the festival?” Lexa asks as Clarke removes her coat and throws it onto a chair at the foot of the bed.

“No,” Clarke sighs, running her fingers through her hair and then crossing her arms. “I was with Raven and Wells finalizing some of our plans.”

Lexa nods without finding words to continue what can hardly be defined as conversation. Clarke appears unsure as well, leaning her weight against the foot of the bed and casting her eyes around the room.

“You still plan to leave tomorrow then?”

“Yes. We were just going over some of the details of our route and collection methods. That sort of thing.”

“I would like to offer you added protections—warriors, horses, anything you need for your travels.”

Shock changes Clarke’s features and her mouth slightly gapes. “I thought you said you couldn’t support the research.”

“Were you not the one who reminded me I was capable of change?”

“Yeah,” Clarke laughs lightly. “I just didn’t think you’d actually been listening.”

“I do not know what the implications of your findings will be, nor what you will discover. But you should not place yourself in unnecessary danger while in search of answers. I trust that Lincoln may have been trained in some level of combat, but I’m not sure that you—”

“Um, excuse me, but I’ve also had training.” Lexa responds with a look of unveiled skepticism, and Clarke’s mouth drops open as she stands fully and takes a step forward. “Okay, maybe not _extensive_ training. I didn’t eat, sleep, and breathe the training arena when I was a kid like _some_ people, but I can hold my own in hand-to-hand combat.” She raises an eyebrow challengingly, squaring up in front of Lexa. “Are you going to ask me to prove it?”

Lexa can barely curb her answering smile by pressing her lips together and looking away. When she returns her gaze to Clarke, Lexa’s voice softens as she gives in to the smile. “Another time perhaps. If you plan to leave in the morning, you should get some rest.”

It is not disappointment she sees in Clarke’s eyes, but something more like resignation. She nods once or twice, following Lexa to the door as she turns to leave.

“Is that why you came to see me?” Lexa’s hand is already on the doorknob when Clarke’s question halts her movements. “To offer the extra horses and everything?”

She turns to look at Clarke over her shoulder. “No.” An exhale, and then finally the truth. “I came here to ask you to stay in Polis.”

“Why didn’t you?”

Lexa shrugs, defeated. “Because it is selfish.”   

Clarke is stood close enough that Lexa can see the way her breathing accelerates as she swallows roughly. Her voice scratches pleasantly when she says, “Ask me.”

Lexa’s heart pounds as Clarke reaches for her hand, removing it from the doorknob and winding their fingers together. “Stay, Clarke.”

“Why?” Her voice croaks, soft and unsure. Clarke is asking a question and daring Lexa to finally tell the truth. Not for the festival. Not for diplomacy. Not even for her research. 

“Stay for me.”

Clarke leans in just so, her other hand catching on Lexa’s waist before their lips meet. Lexa remains motionless for several, rapid heartbeats, fingers flexing against Clarke’s as her body struggles to reacquaint with Clarke’s proximity. There is a subtle, underlying intensity to this encounter that hadn’t been there the first time.

 _Had there ever been a first time?_ Lexa can remember only this moment and nothing preceding it—this desperate touch and quick heat.

Her world has narrowed to Clarke’s hand grasping to her waist and the soft sensation of her tongue. Lexa finds her other hand reaching for purchase along Clarke’s neck, fingers tangling into the soft hair at its base. Clarke leans in closer at the touch, only to step away by a breath and tug gently at Lexa’s shirt, urging her away from the door.

“Will you stay here tonight?” Clarke whispers the words against Lexa’s skin, heat crawling down her spine in response.

The request is followed by many presses of Clarke’s mouth into her neck, and Lexa has yet to find herself in a more compromised position. She would agree to virtually anything—relinquish her title, trade off her lands for pittance—just to have Clarke’s lips below her ear in this way.

“Yes,” she shudders to say, stepping clumsily to follow Clarke’s footsteps as she moves backwards towards the bed. Lexa’s mouth finds its way back to Clarke’s as hands begin to fiddle with the hem of her shirt.

“This will make things worse, you know,” Clarke says between desperate kisses.  

Lexa feels short of breath, dazed in such close proximity to Clarke’s mouth. “What do you mean?”

“If we do this,” Clarke struggles to say. “It will be harder … being apart.”

Her hands are restless against Lexa’s abdomen as they slide across her sides and onto the small of her back, having slipped beneath the soft fabric of her shirt. Lexa’s head tips forward at the sensation, leaning her forehead against Clarke’s while her hands grip to Clarke’s shoulders to keep balance.

“Do you want to stop?” she very nearly whispers.

Clarke responds by raising Lexa’s shirt until her abdomen and lower back are exposed, lifting her gaze as if to ask permission. Lexa assists in removing her shirt, seeking out Clarke’s lips a breath later. She follows Clarke atop the mattress, and articles of clothing are discarded in quick succession. There is no stopping this now—their momentum only accelerates as more skin is revealed. Clarke’s mouth roams freely. Stomach, ribs, thighs, breasts. Lexa’s hands feebly coax while her breathing labors audibly, and Clarke maps a path from her sternum to her navel, teasing and sucking and biting Lexa’s skin until she can no longer stand the sensations.

“Clarke, miya. Please.” Her voice is a desperate pleading she has never before revealed to anyone.

She does as Lexa asks, crawling atop Lexa’s body until their mouths can once again connect. Hands still roam—soft, curious touches against warm skin. But time has never been on their side. Lexa knows that morning will break too soon against the night sky, and with it comes a thousand realities for them to face. She coaxes Clarke onto her back and finally slips her hand between them. With her own arousal mounting discomfort, she brings Clarke over the edge—two fingers buried inside her and Clarke’s broken gasps pressed into her neck and shoulder.

Clarke must also sense their time escaping as she hardly recovers her breath before pushing Lexa over onto her back and climbing between her legs. It is not often that Lexa indulges in sexual intimacy with other women. Even less frequently that she has allowed herself this sort of vulnerability, laid on her back with legs spread wide. Yet she would give herself over to Clarke’s lips and tongue every hour for the rest of her life for how it ruptures a blinding pleasure within her. She begins speaking a fragmented language, cursing softly as her legs shake and sweat builds behind her kneecaps and along her brow. Clarke is relentless but careful, and Lexa’s release builds gradually before she is completely overwhelmed, clutching at the soft furs as her spine goes rigid. Stars explode behind her eyelids and she cries out before she can restrain the impulse. Lexa takes several gasping breaths before Clarke is there, calmly tucking stray curls behind her ear and pressing soft, fragrant kisses along her jaw.

They are quiet for a long moment, just the sounds of Lexa’s breath settling and the crackling fire filling the room. Clarke’s voice, when she eventually speaks, scratches in a way that Lexa has begun to crave. “Do you ever think about that morning? By the train car?”

Clarke’s legs are tangled with Lexa’s own. Her face near, her touch soft and slow. Lexa blinks to clear her vision and sees so much blue. “Far too often.”

“Yeah.” Clarke smiles, pressing their lips together before laying her head against Lexa’s chest. “Me too.” Another long moment stretches in which Lexa relaxes entirely, giving into the weight and mass of Clarke’s body against hers. “I still have to leave. In the morning.”

Lexa swallows, her hand beginning to comb through Clarke’s blonde hair as if they have laid together this way a hundred times. “I know.”

“But, I’ll come back.”

Lexa smiles, her eyes already drifting shut at longer intervals. They are not at liberty to make such promises—it is not the world in which they live, and yet. “I know.”

“You’re still such an insufferable know-it-all,” Clarke grumbles, nevertheless tucking more closely into Lexa’s neck and releasing a long, contented sigh.

“Sleep, Clarke. Insult me in the morning when you’ve had your rest.” Her eyes have closed against the heavy pull of sleep as their limbs grow still and their breathing deepens.

“Okay.”

Lexa kisses Clarke’s hairline just before falling under, and it smells of woodsmoke.

  
:::

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lexa once said: "Death is not the end."
> 
> And so I say to you: THIS CHAPTER IS NOT THE END. 
> 
> Part II of this series (4 more chapters) is already in the works and will be posted at around the same rate as the first 4 chapters.


End file.
